The Tale of Rigoletto
by Lilliane
Summary: Christine is living with her family in the small town of Rouen, when the mysterious Comte Erik di Ribaldi requests her presence in his mansion, or her family will be evicted...Crossover between POTO and the movie Rigoletto NOT the opera EC
1. Prelude

**_Prelude_**

* * *

"R-r-rig…Rig-a-what-o?" 

"Rigo_lett_o! Now hush and pay attention, or you'll miss something very important."

* * *

_Once upon a time, in a faraway land, so far away that you'd never know it existed, there lived the Elf Lord Dhwyrnich and his Lady Llewellyn. Both were exceedingly fair to look upon, and even fairer was their rule over their people in a forest in the middle of the Land of the Elves. Their people loved them as only Elves can love, and many thousands of years passed in peace and happiness._

_But Dhwyrnich and Llewellyn were not happy._

_In all their extensive years of living, never once had they had an Elf-child to call their own. So many members of their court had bourn beautiful children, and the couple was hard-pressed to keep smiling and congratulating their dear friends when, on the inside, they felt misery near unto death._

_Luckily, Dame Fortune was smiling on Lady Llewellyn one day…_

_On her usual ramble through the woods, on the outskirts of the Elvish city, she suddenly heard the sounds of a struggle in the clearing up ahead. Stricken with a swift fear that the Fell Creatures of the Eastlands had invaded her fair land once again, she ran as fast she could to the clearing, only to find – _

_A dryad being aggravated by a pernicious satyr._

_Though out of breath and highly exasperated at the turn of events, the Lady Llewellyn still had enough presence of mind to shoot a blast of defensive magic out of her fingertips, an ability that dryads lack, into the satyr, which in turn let out a roar of frustration and pain. The Elven Lady and the willowy dryad, two unlikely companions, watched precariously as the satyr paused, then lumbered unsteadily away._

_It wasn't for nothing that the Lady was often referred to as the Protector of Virtue._

* * *

"What's virtue?" 

A perplexed hesitation.

"It's…how much morality and goodness a person has."

"But – what does _that_ have to do with the dryad?"

"Would you like to go to bed now?"

"_NO!_"

"Alright! Then let me finish…"

* * *

_The dryad was so grateful to the Elf Lady that she swore that she would give Lady Llewellyn anything she desired (within reason, of course: even magic realms have limits). The Elf sighed with despondency, saying that she truly lacked nothing…nothing except a child, though she did not think that the dryad could help her with that._

_But the dryad smiled, for she was a daughter of roots, of birth and beginnings, and she knew exactly how to help the fair Elf Lady…_

_Nine months later, the Lady Llewellyn was just as surprised as anyone (especially the Lord Dhwyrnich) to give birth to **twins**: a mellow, dark baby he-elf, and a red, squalling baby she-elf. Loud and numerous were the celebrations throughout the land as Elves hither and yon spread the news and the joy associated that their beloved Lord and Lady had finally produced heirs, and such beautiful ones at that! One did not need to enter the Elf-dwellings to hear their light laughter and merry speeches as they all toasted:_

_'To Rigoletto and Glorfindel!'_

_For such were the names of the twins: the older he-elf had been christened Rigoletto, and Glorfindel she. Though the Elf-children looked sufficiently alike in their early years, they quickly grew more and more opposite in appearance. Where Rigoletto had begun to grow a thatch of thick, dark brown hair, Glorfindel had amassed a head of fine, curly light hair; Rigoletto's eyes had only transitioned to a brighter blue after his infancy, but Glorfindel's irises had painstakingly changed to a deep, rich brown; Rigoletto grew to be tall and slim, though still retaining a fine musculature acquired from an unusually active childhood, yet Glorfindel (much to her chagrin) was still petite as she reached adulthood, though with a curvier shape._

_Even their interests were variations on a theme. They both loved to read, but Rigoletto was more interested in history and science, while Glorfindel leaned towards the legends and classic literature. They admired art, yet Glorfindel would rather create it than listen to her brother dispute about each picture's hidden meanings. The twins loved to ride on their palomino horses, but Glorfindel preferred to have her steed go at a walk so she could enjoy her surroundings, consequently leaving her far behind her brother as he raced along at break-neck speeds, savoring the feeling of the wind on his face._

_In one way, Rigoletto and Glorfindel were exactly alike: they shared a passion for singing._

_It seemed that they had been **born** to sing. They both had incredible ranges, wonderful tonality, amazing breath support, musical genius, and (most importantly) the determination it takes to make these things really go far. At a young age (for Elves, that is), they were reputed throughout the land for being the best singers of the Age. Kings of Elves, Men, Unicorns, Dwarves, and even the Dragons themselves requested these unprecedented Elf twins to sing at their numerous mystical and inscrutable ceremonies, to which they happily complied. As the twins became more well-known, teasing rumours began to spread that it was more than the twins' heavenly voices that drew the attention of some members of the opposite gender…_

_She was an Elf Princess of another country, fair of face and endowed with queenly grace. It was, of course, Rigoletto's voice that first drew her to him; for Rigoletto, it was the enchanting way her smiling dark eyes kept fluttering back to his piercing blue orbs. Before long (once again, this is relative to the Elves), Rigoletto fancied himself in love with the soft-hearted princess and he asked her to marry him, to which she readily agreed._

_The day approached. Elves bustled here and there, each day filled with tasks to be taken care of before the wedding. Roses, lilies, lavender, pansies, morning glories, and an infinite number of other such flowers needed to be plucked, shipped and arranged in the Gardens; gowns, robes, doublets, breeches, and an inestimable amount of shoes needed to be designed, created, and fitted; courses of meals, snacks, delicacies, and desserts to be planned, organized, and – of course – made; meanwhile, the already-extensive list of guests to invite was lengthening by the hour._

_It was a wedding to rival that of the Creator to The Most Honoured Lady._

_Soon, there was only one day left until Rigoletto and his princess were to wed in eternal bliss._

* * *

"Yuck!" 

An incredulous pause.

"What do you mean: 'yuck'?"

A third voice interjected. "Keep reading, Christine."

A reproachful silence.

Then: "'But, on the eve of the wedding…'"

* * *

_But, on the eve of the wedding, the Elves were unexpectedly attacked by Fell Creatures, who were led by a powerful sorcerer that Rigoletto had wronged long ago. As the Elves of the Guard busied themselves with the lesser creatures, the sorcerer began a duel with Rigoletto, hoping with a savage desire to have his revenge upon the Elf-prince before the sun rose again. They fought sword to sword back and forth across the grounds, neither gaining advantage over the other for several hours, yet waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. Finally, one did: Rigoletto dealt a quick and fatal blow to the sorcerer after a long and exhausing duel._

_But the fight wasn't quite over yet._

_Enraged that Rigoletto had bested him – a sorcerer, for the Creator's sake! – he gathered what remained of his strength and struck the side of Rigoletto's face with an evil dagger before the Elf could leave. It did the job. The sorcerer cackled maniacally as Rigoletto clawed at his face, screaming in anguish._

_'Now,' said the sorcerer in a guttural voice, 'you will bear the mark of your soul on your face, so that all may be forewarned! Only love could have saved you, and now it **never** will!"_

_He died with a self-satisfied smirk upon his lips._

_Rigoletto was sick with fever and delirium for nearly a fortnight as his body tried – uselessly – to combat the unknown agent inside his Elven blood. He was watched over by the best Healers in the Land, as well as the Lord Dhwyrnich, the Lady Llewellyn, and Glorfindel. They kept a vigil night and day, chanting spells of love and healing till their voices nearly gave out, hoping against hope – _

_Yet, when Rigoletto seemed out of danger and the Healers slowly and cautiously removed the bandages that had been wrapped around the young Elf's head, they all gasped in horror, shock, and disappointment, for it was as the Lord Dhwyrnich had feared. The dagger had been poisoned: not with a tangible, liquid concoction, but an evil spell so ancient that even the Elves had nearly forgotten that it existed, yet so potent that it corrupted the very air it touched. Now it was in the body of the son of an Elf Lord, and it clearly showed on Rigoletto's face. The deep gashes the sorcerer's dagger had made had never completely closed, nor would they ever, and the skin around it had turned an angry, mottled red. Because of being wrapped inside bandages for so long and so recently after being struck, the skin that made up his lower right eyelid (for that was the side on which he was attacked) had been damaged beyond repair, so it tended to sag and expose parts of his inner eye, giving him the appearance of being somewhat stupid; this was, of course, **after** the period of time in the which he couldn't bear to have his eye exposed to the sharp, stinging air and had to have it covered by a protective eye patch. _

_It seemed that his wounds would never mend._

_One old Healer remembered a similar wound several millenniums ago; having been an apprentice at the time, he still remembered the ultimatum that his master had delivered, and which he now delivered to Dhwyrnich and Llewellyn:_

_'He has been poisoned by the most powerful evil, and so he may only be cured by the most powerful righteousness: Love. If he can learn to **really** love someone, and that person can love him despite his ugliness, then the poison will be forced to leave his body, and he will be whole.'_

_But, what no one knew was that the poison was stronger than they expected. Being an antiquated spell, it was extremely slow, but soon it would begin its inexorable way through his veins from his face, down his neck and shoulder, and into his heart. Once the poison had entered his heart, there would be no hope for him: he would become a wraith, a Fell Creature, a type of his former self. He would become one of the creatures he had spent so long fighting against, a lost soul filled with darkness and despair. Only Love could have saved him…_

_But now, it seemed it never would._

_The Elf princess, who enjoyed the reputation of having a kind heart, fled in pure terror when she finally saw the mangled face of her 'fiancé'. Not stopping even to give the traditional thanks to her host and hostess, the princess immediately left the home of Rigoletto and rode with her consort back to her father's kingdom and refused to leave, not even to answer to the pleadings of the messenger sent by the Elf that she had been so eager to marry less than a fortnight ago. Though her parents admonished her to not repeat to anyone what she told them about the sudden turn of events, it soon seemed that everyone in their kingdom (and then some) knew what a monster the once-fair Rigoletto had become._

_Stung by the princess's reaction to his face, Rigoletto timidly sought out the fair she-elves of the land, hoping against hope that he would find the one whom he could love and who could see past his deformity and love him for what he was. During these exchanges, he wore a mask to hide his wounds, which, sooner or later, produced the counter-effect of making the she-elves more enamored with his face than he desired. The moment that these she-elves saw his face – for the moment would come, whether voluntarily or not – they could never see him in the same light again, if they could **still** stand to be in his presence._

_Their expectations changed when they saw him: instead of anticipating the face of an angel (his unharmed side certainly was handsome, not to mention his heavenly voice), they now expected him to have the soul of a monster, and it shook them to not only see that what they anticipated was not what was there, but that two such contrasting traits could coexist in one entity. If it wasn't fear of his face that eventually drove them away, it was fear of his numerous incongruities._

_Rigoletto quickly began to grow bitter and frustrated over the years, aggravated by the slow pain in his neck that would come and go…_

_When Rigoletto became more than sick of being pushed away by every female he tried to become acquainted with, and was ready to hide his face in a hole in the dirt, Glorfindel stopped him and suggested that they travel into the World of Men, since he had nearly exhausted the Land of the Elves. Their parents – who still shuddered to look upon their son – were a long time in giving their permission._

_However, one day Lady Llewellyn finally gave them their answer. 'I can deny you nothing, my children. Go, and seek out the one who will love you more than anything in this world or the next. Take care of one another.'_

_So Rigoletto left the lands of his birth, accompanied only by his twin sister Glorfindel and his faithful friend, who was called Hansellon, to sojourn in the strange World of Men, and search for the one who would save him from his cursed life, his cursed face._

_But…_

_Who could ever learn to love a Beast?_


	2. Chapter One: These Precious Things

**A/N: **I cannot apologize enough to all those who started reading this before now and have had to wait so long for this chapter. I'm not sure how it happened (and I personally don't want to think about it), but after I originally posted the prologue for this story, somehow "School" came to stalk me with a vengeance, which was not...fun. Then I honestly slaved over how to write this (and future) chapters while I was in summer school, only it was somewhat difficult considering that I had thought of about 6 different ways to start off this story. Finally, I figured it all out (not to mention the next ten chapters), so we're all set:-) Thanks so much to CrusaderTransformer1 and silvergenji for talking with me, listening to my idea, and giving me new ideas! Extra thanks to silvergenji for being my beta (and listening to me complain about strange siblings and even stranger dreams)!

I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or either form of Rigoletto. Speaking of which, I have a special request for those of you who have already seen Rigoletto: _**PLEASE**_ do not spoil the ending of that movie for those who have **not** seen Rigoletto. Those who haven't, go buy it. It's well worth the money and then some.

One other thing: while conducting some research on the opera _Rigoletto_, I found a little discrepancy: apparently, Verdi wrote it in 1851, _but_ it wasn't allowed (snicker) to be performed in Paris until about 30 years later, which is about 30 years after this is taking place. So, for the sake of artistic license, let us all imagine that _Rigoletto_ was performed in Paris only a few months after it was written...

* * *

_**Chapter One:**_

_**These Precious Things**_

_**-Christine-**_

* * *

"Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me."

- Stephenie Meyer, _New Moon_

* * *

_Dear Diary,  
__Today was another busy day. Papa's café was the busiest of all Paris (in my opinion). With all of the starving singers, dancers, stagehands, and everyone else, they sure kept Papa on his feet! Papa doesn't complain much, but I'm sure he's tired of it. But then he must be (partly) happy about it too, because heaven knows we aren't the richest family in Paris. I know he would much rather sit with Maman and their friends than work, but we _do _need the money. Aunt Giry and me try to help out as much as we can. But since Aunt Giry is the ballet mistress and I am only 9 years old, we can't help much. I thank God every night for Papa's sous-chef! I wish I was older so I could do grown-up things!_

_Dear Diary,  
__I am going to be 10 in TWO DAYS! Finally! Mamàn and Papa are really excited too. They promised me a special birthday treat! _Rigoletto_ is going to be performed again at l'Opèra Populaire on my birthday, and I get to see it! I'm so happy! It's my favorite opera, and I have special tickets so I can sit in the house, not backstage like I usually do. I can see _Rigoletto _the way I've always wanted to see it, and now I won't have to keep moving to make room for all the performers and stagehands! It's the best birthday present ever! _

_Only one more day!_

_Dear Diary,  
__I don't know what to write.  
__Maman and Papa were killed_

I snapped the small diary shut. With trembling fingers, I lifted my mattress with the strength born of desperation – a desperation to get that book out of sight as fast as possible – and slid it underneath, letting the mattress fall harshly on top of it.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Perhaps that was why it was still as much of a shock as it had been four years ago. Reading that phrase, that one phrase, was enough to reduce me to a bumbling fool, for no amount of mattress-slamming would push away the awful truth in those pages. I stared unseeingly at the bedclothes as I struggled to regain my composure: my hands balled into fists, my breath came in ragged gasps, causing my heart to pound much louder and faster than it was wont to. However, even when these symptoms had dissipated, even when felt I could trust my legs to carry me from my bedside to my armoire, I could still almost _feel_ my mind recoiling with horror from that idea, that awful idea. It was the one thing I would never think about, never speak of, because to do so would make it more finally real than I could ever imagine. Then the unbearable pain would be there, pain I _knew_ I couldn't deal with. If feeling only a small portion of that all-encompassing pain – simply by reading a phrase – was enough to send me into transports of suffering, how much worse would it be to feel it _all_, whole and undiluted? How much more would I feel, and how much more incapacitated would I be, with the vast magnitude of such affliction?

Best to do what I'd done nearly every day for over four years: just try to get through each day, one step at a time.

I focused on the objects in front of my eyes as I stepped behind my dressing screen, fresh clothes in hand. I concentrated on the feel of the cool, smooth linen against my skin as I slipped on my favorite white blouse and buttoned a navy skirt over it. Others might dispute on the propriety of wearing such an ensemble to l'Opèra Populaire – and on a _Saturday_ – but I had learned the hard way that it was much more quick and convenient to change into one's leotard and hose out of a blouse and skirt, as opposed to a dress.

Ever since I had come to live with my Aunt Giry and her family, I had taken ballet lessons at the opera house. At first, it was merely out of necessity that I did so: my aunt was the head ballet mistress at l'Opèra, and she couldn't very well leave me in their house alone while she and my young cousin went to the opera house, and my uncle attended to his matters of business. However, after I had overcome my initial shyness of the more outspoken girls and discovered that our teacher's personality was _not _determined by her sharp tone of voice, I began to genuinely enjoy it.

There's something about dancing that I've never been able to accurately describe. To be able to feel the wind in your hair and between your fingertips as you twirl gracefully on, to feel yourself move with light elegance and yet with powerful expression…there's nothing quite like it. It is the only art form that I know of in which your _whole body_ becomes a living, moving, breathing work of art. It's an amazing feeling, to let the power of music take over your movements, and then you are not controlled by propriety, but by _emotion_.

Perhaps this was the true reason why my aunt had wanted me to learn ballet. She of all people would know how satisfying it is to discard one's troubles through dance, and – though I had never heard her use these exact words – I got the impression that my aunt felt it would be healing somehow for me to follow in the footsteps of her sister.

Aunt Giry was right, to a point. Though I could not bear to think of the past, this was enough. It was enough to know that Gisèle Lecroix Daaé had once walked through these halls, that she had graced these rooms with her presence, and that she had once taken lessons in that very same place when she was my age, however long ago. It was enough to feel that mystical sense of _other_ as I practiced in those rooms, feeling not as if I was just Christine Lucille Daaé, but more like Gisèle Lecroix Daaé, a strange combination of the two.

Unfortunately, it was never my life's ambition to become prima ballerina. I had seen enough operas backstage to want something different.

Something infinitely more beautiful.

Don't mistake me: I love to dance, I really do. And yet, throughout my lifelong quest for beauty, never have I found so sublime an art form as that of music. For me, music encompasses all emotion, all feeling; music, at its root, is divine. I can never remember a time when I did _not_ love music – though, I suppose that growing up in an opera house had something to do with it. I've always wanted to be a part of that beauty: more specifically, I wanted to become the vessel for those melodies that have enchanted me all my life. I remember watching the prima donnas of my childhood, lost in a universe commanded by their words, my heart buoyed up by the sheer magnitude of their souls, their music. Awed into silence, I would listen while imagining myself in their places, filled with music and light.

_Singing_ is my true passion.

When I had first informed my – my parents of my preference, they had tried to talk to me sensibly, telling me that 8 years old was a very young age to be taking singing lessons and that I might change my mind later. However, after some firm persistence on my part (I tried not to act like a spoiled child, but one must do what one can to attain what one loves more than almost anything else) as well as some reasoning of my own, my fa– Esbjörne Daaé began to teach me basic vocal technique. He was both a violinist and a singer, and as much a lover of music as I, so I had known the musical alphabet almost before I knew how to count (I doubt I would've learned how to do so that same month, had he not realized that I also needed to learn about rhythm and counting time). What he taught me, though, was different from those elementary lessons. It was difficult for me at the time, and yet I threw myself headlong into his tutelage, eager for every moment in which I learned how to properly play that instrument which God had blessed me with from birth.

My birthday had put an end to that.

I gasped aloud as the cold water with which I was washing myself splashed against my face.

_Heavens above, Christine, will you never learn? Do you _want_ to make yourself miserable? Have you really turned into some sort of glutton for punishment?_

I inhaled deeply as I covered my face with a towel, letting the faint lavender smell eddy around my thoughts as they settled like grains of sand in the ocean. Looking that far back into my diary was an extremely foolish thing to do, especially in the morning when I still had the whole day ahead of me! How much harder would it now be to put on a pleasant face for everyone when I had had such a cheerless start to my day?

And what did it serve? What good did it do, to remember such things? It didn't signify how much I remembered _them_, for nothing could be changed. I might mope and cry and despair as much as I chose – not that there was much of that sort of behavior on my part – but nothing I could do would bring them back to this Earth. And, as arbitrary as time is –

There is no going back.

"Christine! Time for breakfast, _ma chèrie_!"

I dried my face and quickly folded the washcloth.

"Coming, aunt!"

There is no going back.

* * *


	3. Chapter Two: Mere Speculation

**Author's Note/Disclaimer: **All right, I admit it: I was wrong about the time frame. At the time of this and of the previous chapter, the year is _1878_. Many apologies :-/ This chapter has some endnotes, but since this site won't allow the use of asterisks, "(insert appropriate number here)"s are used. Thank you _so _much, silvergenji, for being my beta and going over this when your life is already chaotic enough! Oh, and before I forget: neither _Rigoletto_ nor _The Phantom of the Opera_ are mine. There. I said it. And now, mes amies, I present to you the next installment of this wondrous tale of Rigoletto...

P.S. _Les Miserables_ fans might, to use a common phrase, get a kick out of this chapter...

* * *

_**Chapter Two:**_

_**Mere Speculation**_

_**-Annette Giry- **_

* * *

"We are the trees whom shaking fastens more."

– George Herbert, 'Affliction V'

* * *

"_Maman_, _maman_!"

I started in my seat at the sudden exclamation. Christine and I looked up from our breakfast plates, and then exchanged significant glances.

"What is it, _chèrie_?" I called as I began to rise from my chair.

My daughter Marguerite - who much preferred to be called Meg - swept dramatically into our small dining room. Her wild blonde curls were all in a disarray - undoubtedly mussed by the wind - her usually calm blue eyes were snapping, and her rosy skin was flushed a dark crimson.

"That Sorelli from down the way didn't believe me when I told her that you're the head ballet mistress! She called me a liar, and she said I'm making up foolish stories just to make myself popular! Just because _her_ maman was the prima ballerina for one season _decades_ ago, she thinks she can lord it over the rest of us..." Meg trailed off into dark muttering as she circled the table to her chair. Her acidic words irritated me, as if they truly had been formed of some degenerating liquid. I sighed, and then pinched the bridge of my nose.

After seating herself with no little alacrity, Meg looked up at me with piercing, blazing eyes.

"_Well?_"

_Oh, that child could_...I returned her piercing stare while placing my arms akimbo on my hips.

"_What_, Marguerite?"

Meg could never quite stand up to the sharp tone of voice that I had perfected in the corridors of l'Opèra Populaire. That, coupled with the use of her full first name, was more than enough to communicate to her the extent of my annoyance. The fire in her eyes diminished considerably as she wilted under my gaze.

"Um – aren't you going to tell her that I was right?" she asked hopefully.

My lips seemed to tighten of their own accord.

"Meg," I sighed, "I know that you and Sorelli don't get on at all, but I cannot come running to put an end to every argument between the two of you! Moreover, Sorelli's mother is a highly esteemed patroness of the opera; the last thing we need is for you to insult Sorelli and cause her mother to withdraw all of her funds!"

"In other words, no," Christine uttered sotto voce.

"Besides," I continued as I slid back into my chair, "Sorelli's mother often attends rehearsals and always sees me with the _corps de ballet_. I have confidence that she will soon put Sorelli to rights – _without_ my interference."

Despite the ample amount of eggs, bread, and cheese I had dished out onto her plate, Meg persisted in sulking. I refused to be drawn any further into her conflict, and so we ate in silence as tense and uncomfortable as any stalemate – that is, until Christine mercifully broke it.

"Meg," she said softly.

With a slight frown, I noticed that Meg's lips were still down turned in a childish pout.

Sullenly: "What?"

"You shouldn't be angry with your mother, or with Sorelli either."

Meg quickly opened her mouth to protest, but Christine spoke first. "No, listen to me, please?"

Meg was hesitant, but after gauging the expression in her cousin's wide dark eyes, she nodded reluctantly.

"_Merci_. Now, I completely agree with you: Sorelli should not have called you a liar, nor accused you of trying to advance yourself. If _she_ was my younger cousin –" and Christine leaned in conspiratorially, dropping her voice slightly so that it would just carry to Meg's place across the table "– _I _would be having a special talk with _her_ right now."

Meg giggled, and even I had to smile at the image in my head that her words presented. _Christine Daaé, related to a goose like Sorelli? Indeed!_

Christine gave a small smile, then straightened herself as she sobered the tone of her voice and words. "But you can't go back and change what she did, and being angry or bitter isn't going to make things better, is it?"

"No," Meg said quietly, a new pink flush tinting her cheek. "It'll just make things worse."

"Exactly! You can't control what she does, but you _can_ control what _you _do and how _you_ feel. What Sorelli did was wrong, but you are the one who chooses whether to forget about it and be happy, or to be angry and act just as bad. You don't _like_ being angry, do you?"

"Well – no," Meg admitted sheepishly.

Christine raised her dark, slanting eyebrows a fraction and continued to look at Meg steadily. My daughter's eyes flickered back and forth between Christine's face and mine, as she seemed to deliberate. Then, in one fluid movement that made my dancer-mother's heart proud, she rose from her chair and walked hesitantly around to mine – almost like one of the members of my own _corps de ballet_ who has danced differently and anxiously anticipates either praise or admonishment.

"Good morning, _maman_," Meg said, all trace of petulance and selfishness gone. Two toned, creamy white arms wrapped lovingly around my neck, and I tilted my head to present her with my cheek.

I promptly received a tender, if somewhat wet, kiss.

"And a good morning to you, my Meg," I responded as I turned to face her, cupping her soft cheek in my hand. I let open approval colour my voice and smile, letting her know – without saying the words – how much I appreciated her choice to take Christine's wisdom to heart.

Meg smiled back at me, then – to my dancer-mother's heart's dismay – fairly bounced back to her seat on my right-hand side. Without fuss or preamble, she began to chatter vivaciously to her older cousin, who continued to look at her with the same steady light in her eyes.

Such scenes were not very unusual in this house. Meg was often a very considerate and sweet-tempered girl, but – even at her young eight years of age – I could see that she had the beginnings of a fierce loyalty within her. This, combined with a hasty temper and a sharp tongue, was more than enough to put her into a fiery passion when provoked, which she often was (no thanks to the inept mothers in our district who spoiled their children into ignorance). Unfortunately, Meg had inherited her irascible temper from me, and so, when she chose to bring her latest arguments to my notice or demand my interference, I would become irritated within a matter of moments.

I am not usually in possession of what some would term "sang-froid", neither have I ever been very calm in anything I do: when one is the head ballet mistress at the largest and most renowned opera house in all France, one must learn to take everything life gives you in a hot-iron grasp.

Because of our similar characteristics, Meg and I could be like flint and firewood: if we came together while one was in a hot temper, the other would inevitably ignite and thereby escalate the conflict.

Christine was different.

From what I had seen of her as a child, I knew her to be in possession of a formidable temper as well – all the members of this family had inherited it from my grandfather – but she was _much_ slower to anger than Meg and me. Little annoyances – ones which were enough to elicit dark looks and resentful words from the rest of us – were only ever met with a sigh or a tightening of the lips on her part; very rarely would she even speak out against such grievances.

For a fourteen-year-old girl, she was remarkably patient.

I stole a glance at her from underneath my eyelashes. Christine still seemed to be listening to my daughter's cheerful babbling, but her eyes were slightly unfocused, giving them a soft, dreamy look. A smile played at the corner of her lips, as transient as sunlight upon the water: it was as if she were amused by her cousin's limitless energy – or as if she were dreaming of some far-off, perfect place that she would much rather be.

I could never be too sure of that.

Though Christine had been living with my family per Gisèle's will for about four years now, I still did not quite understand my niece's character. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that her parents had – for the most part – been so different from me, and thus had passed on their inscrutable qualities to their only daughter. I recognized Gisèle's dreamy, romantic sensibilities in Christine. She seemed to have inherited both of her parents' unusual kindness, thus granting her with a sweet and innocent spirit…but there were instances when I saw glimpses of Esbjörne's natural sternness looking out through her eyes. I instinctively knew – though I'm not quite sure how – that she relied on this latent iron will to hold herself together, in case she felt that her emotions might control and weaken her.

Like this morning. Not long after I had called her name, Christine had entered the dining room silently, like a cold draft of wind upon the stage. I had been shocked into silence for a few moments when I first saw the steel in her eyes, for it had been nearly a year since I last saw it there. However, when she noticed my rigid stance and wide eyes, she relaxed visibly, and the morning carried on as it usually did.

I knew the reason why it was so, with Christine. But, foolish coward that I was, I dared never speak of it to her. She reminded me too much of my own dear sister – God rest her sweet soul – and far be it from me to willingly cause my niece any unnecessary pain. It had been years since I had seen those dark brown eyes well up into tears, and I knew that I would not know what to do, were I confronted with such a sight.

Besides, was it not better to keep one's sufferings to oneself? I knew from personal experience that it was better to exert rigid control over one's emotions – and thereby avoid enemies' malignant triumph, and family and friends' weak pity – then to give in and be open to the censure and ridicule of the world. (1)

Christine did _not_ need that, not along with everything else in her life.

I tried to send her such signals of comfort as I felt I could – but I often wondered whether they were ever truly enough…

"_Bonjour_, my family!"

"Papa!"

I nearly dropped my fork at Meg's loud reply to her father's joyous greeting. In almost the same moment, she pushed back her chair – its legs protested loudly against the wooden floor – and ran into my husband's waiting arms.

I smiled contentedly at the picture they cut in the doorway. Though Meg was considered tall for her age, she could only just reach high enough to wrap her arms around her father's waist. To compensate for this difference in height, he bent over her until his face was nearly on level with hers. They hugged tightly for a moment, then he took her small face in his large hands and kissed both of her cheeks, while she did likewise.

When he looked up, his blue eyes alighted upon Christine, who had risen slowly from her chair in anticipation of her morning greeting. Her face was lit with the soft glow of a warm, personable smile.

"Uncle," she greeted softly.

"Ah, here is my niece," my husband returned warmly. They kissed each other's cheeks as well, and then he lingered a moment to smile into her eyes, as if to reassure. She smiled back at him, and then his gaze finally turned to mine.

"Annette," he sighed.

"Jules," I returned, a smile in my eyes.

He glided quickly around to my seat at the head of the table – if a square table can have a head – leaned over, and presented me with a sweet good-morning kiss. I continued to smile against his warm lips.

My husband's name was Jules Giry, a fact which he would often jokingly deplore upon forming new acquaintances. In fact, he frequently tried to find the humor in day-to-day situations and keep a more lighthearted view of things. It was one of his talents, and even better was the fact that he had the common sense to know when and when not to give it free rein. His humor and optimism were a safe harbor for the rest of us in troubled times, and he could always be counted upon to listen and give advice when one needed it most.

I had yet to witness the adversity that could break my husband.

When we broke apart and Jules moved to take his seat, I glimpsed Meg's face screwed up in an expression of childish disgust. Glancing at Christine, I saw that her lips were again curved in a dreamy, almost wistful smile. I smiled back, trying to fight the girlish blush that would blossom in my thin cheeks, and then sent the food down to Jules's end of the table.

"So," he began briskly as he helped himself to some eggs, "what are my girls up to today?"

"Ballet lessons!" Meg exclaimed excitedly around a mouthful of bread.

"Well, a lesson and a rehearsal afterwards," Christine amended, masking my admonishment to her younger cousin to not chew with her mouth full, else she should resemble a cow.

Jules's brow furrowed slightly. "A lesson _and_ a rehearsal? Aren't they working you a little too hard?"

"You needn't worry, Jules; there will be plenty of times for the girls to rest. Mme. Sainte-Victoire wants them to be ready for their recital next week, and _I_ have to rehearse with the girls in the _corps_ for their next performance as well. The practice may take some time, but I should be very surprised if we were not back in time for tea."

"Won't you be hungry at dinnertime?"

"Don't worry, papa!" Meg cried out cheerfully. "We're cooking our _own_ dinners today!"

Jules smiled fondly. "That's my big girl!"

"What about you, uncle?" Christine asked curiously. "What thrilling excursions do you have planned for the day?"

Jules leaned back in his seat. "Oh, I think today's going to be a heavy-duty 'business' day."

Meg mock-groaned theatrically, but her father carried on: "I'll be spending most of the morning in and out of my office, checking up on my accounts and expenses, inspecting the ships and their crews, those sorts of things. And then I have a meeting at 2 o'clock with M. Montparnasse," he added in an undertone.

I set my utensils down instantly, my gaze turning into a wary stare. I glanced at the girls to see if I had disturbed them, but they seemed to be contentedly eating the last bites of their meal.

"Christine? Meg?" They both turned to look at me. "Would you please head down to the kitchen and put together your dinners for today?"

Meg seemed ready enough to comply, but I did not miss the curious glances I was eliciting from Christine.

"I'll join you in a few minutes," I said, more softly this time. Christine paused, then rose and disappeared into the kitchen with Meg and their dirty plates.

I waited until the last sounds of their footsteps had died away, before turning what I hoped was a penetrating glare onto Jules.

"Montparnasse?"

He looked up – no doubt startled by the open enmity in my voice – then hastily put down his utensils and held up his hands in a supplicating gesture.

"Anne, I know you dislike him, but the man is a visionary!"

_A visionary?_ I scoffed incredulously. Nearly every man in trade claimed to have some discernment of their business's future: whether or not this was true ever remained to be seen. I never believed any of their sham stories, but Jules had no such luck.

"Annette!" He sounded shocked. "I have a very high respect for M. Montparnasse! He handled the strike of '76 better than anyone else I know; in fact, he made more money off of that strike than he usually does in times of peace! We have _him_ to thank for this house!"

I could only stare at him, sickened and momentarily speechless. No one, not even the landed gentry of Paris, could forget the strike of 1876. (2) Hundreds – if not thousands – of workers had turned out to protest their low wages and terrible working conditions. Perhaps the strike had seemed like a good idea to _them_, but when days had turned into weeks and weeks had turned into months, the whole city became tense from speculating the outcome of the stubborn battle of wills between masters and hands. This battle had even permeated the gilded walls of l'Opèra Populaire: several of my best dancers had had to leave the city as well as the company because their monthly funds were not enough to cover both the expense of their living _and_ that of their family's. Others had had to move permanently into the ballet dormitories and work as seamstresses or stagehands so that they _could_ afford to stay with the company, whilst their families left for other cheaper areas of France, and were often unable to visit their daughter or son more than twice a year, if at all.

The strike worsened when some of the masters – of which Montparnasse had been the leader – began to hire strikebreakers: poor immigrants from the further regions of France – and sometimes a few Belgians or Italians – who would do _anything_, even work for lower wages, to receive a steady income. When the strikers heard how easily they could _all_ lose any hope of being hired – let alone winning the strike – the union leaders were sent to supplicate Montparnasse and the other masters, nearly begging to have their jobs back so that they would not be forced to hear their starving children cry another night. At first, Montparnasse resisted: why should he hire those who had already turned out? However, after he felt that he had robbed the union leaders of all their dignity, he agreed to fire the strikebreakers and hire his old workers again.

But on _his_ terms.

"Are you telling me," I finally managed to choke out, "that _you_ conceded to be a part of that scheme? Do you mean to say that – that _this_ house, within which lives our daughter and our niece – whom we are _trying_ to raise into good, honest young women – this house was paid with _kickbacks_?" (3)

All of the blood drained from Jules's face.

"No – Anne, it was not like that! It _is_ not like that!"

I raised an eyebrow at him. "'Is'? What scheme has that man got you tangled up in now?"

Jules hesitated a moment, then plunged headlong into a short summary of Montparnasse's plan and his part in it. With each sentence he uttered, I felt my eyes widen more and more with shock.

"And you _agreed_ to this?" I hissed when he had finished.

His face now flushed. "Of course I agreed! This is an important opportunity for me to make things much better for us!"

I couldn't stop shaking my head. "All that money…and what will we do if you lose?"

"But that's the beauty of it, Anne!" Unable to contain his excitement, Jules rose from his chair and half-stumbled over to mine, almost like one who is intoxicated. He dropped to both knees and then raised his hands, placing one over both of mine – which had stayed clenched in my lap since the girls had left – and the other in a gentle grip around my left shoulder. "M. Montparnasse has assured me that, should we lose – which is _highly_ unlikely – _he_ will cover the expenses and help me to pay off my debt! How could I refuse such an offer? How could _anyone_ refuse it?"

"_I _could!" I fired back, unable to control myself. "I don't suppose you received that promise from him in writing?"

Jules hesitated again. "I'm afraid…there just aren't any legal forms for that."

I scoffed again. "You mean that he wouldn't give it to you –"

"I wouldn't ask him! As a businessman, I trust him, and I would not offend him by demanding a formal agreement when I could see that he meant it!"

I couldn't look at him. I turned my head away, unwilling to hear any more of his weak excuses. I could not believe this was happening! How could he do this? How could he betray my trust in him, in his honesty? How could he risk almost everything we owned and naïvely put his trust in a greedy, gluttonous man like Montparnasse? _How?_

Panic rose like bile at the back of my throat, but I swallowed it down with force. With a steadying breath: "If you pulled out now –"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his head shaking. "If I pull out now, we will lose everything."

The enormity of this took my breath away. I could only turn my head to stare at him and repeat, stupidly, "Everything?"

"Most definitely."

I could feel it, the weight of an uncertain future heavy on my chest, making breathing difficult. How I hated it!

Jules must have read this on my face, for his expression became animated once more as he tried to be persuasive. "But – think about it, Anne! If – _when_ we get the money, I can do more for you and the girls! We could move into a proper house, away from these annoying neighbors of ours! We could – we could have our own cook, maybe even a maid! We could afford a carriage, perhaps a horse! And we could pay a proper singing teacher to teach Christine!"

I merely looked at him. This was too unlike Jules; not even he could become so outwardly excited over something so droll as business. It both scared and angered me how important he felt his scheme was, so important that he would set the _truly_ important things in his life at naught.

"Couldn't you have been happy with what we already had?"

He wilted visibly under my eyes, but his gaze still held. "Is it wrong to want more for my family?" he whispered.

"If you 'want more' so much that you are willing to risk everything that we already own in order to have it…then, yes."

Jules dropped his head and the hand that had warmed my shoulder, finally ashamed. However, instead of feeling a wicked sense of justice, I only felt remorse, ragged as the crags of the Pyrenees. I reached out and placed my hand on his soft, full cheek, trying to close the distance between us.

"There must be something – something you can do. Are you full certain that you cannot pull out?"

"Yes, I'm certain," he replied quietly.

I tried to think of more possibilities, but I felt that I was grasping at stars. "But – if Montparnasse has enough to repay you in the event of a loss – surely he could pay you back now, and then we would not be at risk –"

"I could not ask him to do that," he whispered, his eyes still downcast.

I stared at him, bewildered. Could he not see how imperative it was to divert possible ruin? Could he not see how terribly this would affect us all if he lost – which he most likely would?

I did not like to beg, it would take my pride…but what else could I do? "Please, Jules, avert this disaster. _Please_ pull out."

"No," he replied, a hint of a smolder in his voice. I pulled my hand away as if burned. "And even if I _thought_ I could ask him, I would not." He stopped, and then looked me directly in the eyes. I was surprised and hurt by the cold iron in his blue gaze.

"I entered into this venture with full trust in M. Montparnasse; do you think I would have if I did _not_ trust him? I didn't tell you at first because I knew you would react like this. But I believe that I have been acting solely for the good of my family, and no one, not even you with your prejudices and pessimism, will quench this hope I have for us, for an even brighter future."

And, with that stinging ultimatum, Jules rose and left the room, his shoulders shaking.

I could not have been more shocked than if Jules had slapped me across the face. My hands were shaking with shock and anger, and I almost forgot how to breathe. I stared unseeingly at the empty threshold, trying to gather my whirling thoughts, willing my burning eyes to stay dry.

_Never_ in my life had Jules spoken so harshly to me, or I to him, and – though I would never admit it – it frightened me to see how passionate and defensive he was. I was afraid that he had placed _too_ much trust in Montparnasse: a man spoken well of by those whose purses he had lined in exchange for what he wished, and spoken much worse of by the growing number of innocent souls whom he had cheated in order to line those purses. I could not understand how Jules could trust such a creature! How would Jules react when – _if_ it ended badly?

For it most likely would. The idea of speculation had taken the business world by fire: with promises of quick riches only at the expense of a little fast thinking, who would not be tempted? Many were the tales told of those who had suddenly landed themselves with a substantial fortune – courtesy of the latest scheme they had been a part of – but even more than those were the rumors of families who had lost everything and were, for all intents and purposes, ruined. However, these stories hardly ever saw the light of day and, because of these selective "results", many had been deceived into believing that speculation was always effortless, foolproof, successful, and even honourable. More often than not, it was the exact opposite.

I thought that Jules knew better.

And now, he trusted this slippery, oily, money-grabbing schemer more than me, his own wife! _Why?_ What had that man done to Jules to gain such pure, blind devotion? How could Jules be so willfully deaf to what could happen? Did he not trust me anymore? Did he think me only a nagging woman whose sole purpose was to hurt and annoy?

And yet I still could not push away the memories of the gaunt faces of my former students and _petite rats_, telling me that it would be the last time I would ever see them, all because of the manipulation of a thing called money. It made me sick to think that my family had lived off of what was rightfully theirs – as well as that of countless others – and it made me more sick to think that we might end up like them. I did not want to, but if Jules was determined to lead us down the road that had led so many to ruin…was it not better to be prepared for the worst?

But, was _Jules_ prepared? It had seemed to me that he had not even allowed the notion to enter his head! Everyone always makes the incorrect assumption that any bad thing, be it a robbery or a natural disaster, will happen to someone else.

Unfortunately, we are all "someone else" to someone else.

Jules seemed to have no such foresight. What would he do, when he found out? Would he be sad, or angry? Would he blame me?

I suddenly sat bolt upright. What would _we_ do? Would we really have to sell everything to cover our losses? For I did not trust a man like Montparnasse to be so unselfish as to pay a ruined man's debts…where would we live? Would we be able to afford the bare essentials, such as clothing, food, and so on? There was so little time!

I tried to breathe deeply, to calm myself. There was no sense in panicking now, not when the outcome would not be known for about another six hours. Until that fateful time, it was best to stay calm and think rationally about what to do _after_ the news was made known.

Faintly, I could hear the sounds of Meg's chattering in the kitchen, interrupted every now and then by Christine's maturing voice. Jules must have joined them, for I could also hear his laughter rumbling down the hallway.

_So, then_. For six hours, I would set my teeth on edge. For six hours, I would think of the future when I could not think of the present. And, at the end of those six hours, I would return to Jules; I would crawl my way out of the opera house if I had to.

I only regretted that I could not be there to receive the news with him.

I could hear his lumbering footsteps leave the kitchen and head for the front door. My eyes tightened as I rose and left for the kitchen, a malediction ready on my lips.

_Curse that Montparnasse for taking my husband away from me! _

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(1) This part, though not taken word for word, was very much inspired and influenced by the sayings and thoughts of Elinor in Jane Austen's _Sense and Sensibility_.

(2) From the research that I have done, there was no strike in Paris in 1876. I only wrote this part in here to further characterization.

(3) From an online dictionary - kickback (n): a percentage of income given to a person in a position of power or influence as payment for having made the income possible: usually considered improper or unethical…the practice of an employer or a person in a supervisory position of taking back a portion of the wages due workers.

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Now, if you would be so kind as to leave a contribution in the little blue box...


	4. Chapter Three: Ends Don't Justify Means

**A/N: **Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! And, if you don't celebrate Thanksgiving, then Happy Thursday :-)

I know, it's been a while, but this chapter was the hardest to write so far! It's written from Jules's POV, and, as he is the typical male in the sense that he doesn't like to talk about/explore his emotions, and this chapter is written during a really emotional time in his life...well, you see the difficulty. I tried to keep everything in balance, so that we see his thoughts and feelings, but not so much that it's out of character. And, just to let you all know, every now and then you will find within this story a reference to God or Christianity. I promise not to be preachy, but do keep in mind that these characters are Christian or have been brought up in Christian households; if these statements somehow offend you, then please keep such sentiments to yourself.

Also, a note on the quote: if there was a way for me to somehow quote music, I would have "quoted" the piano/instrumental interlude from Straylight Run's "Existentialism on Prom Night", if not the whole song. Though I'm unable to do so, I still highly recommend that song.

Mominator: Love the name! You were semi-right in your guesses about this chapter - but your last question was a little garbled; what were you asking exactly?

**Disclaimer: **_The Phantom of the Opera_ and _Rigoletto_ do not belong to me, neither do any of the quotes I have used or will use.

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Chapter Three: 

_**Ends Don't Justify Means**_

_**-Jules Giry-**_

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**_

"There is nothing certain about speculation!"

- John Thornton, BBC's _North and South

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_

I marched briskly down the street, barely conscious of where I was or where I was going. I did not want to be conscious of anything: I didn't even want to _know_ that I was conscious. I wanted to fade away, to disappear. Ah, what a relief it would be to lie down and never arise again! But, no…I couldn't very well collapse in the middle of a busy street: no doubt, I would be trampled underfoot.

_Would it matter if I was?_

I tried to keep my gaze focused straight ahead, making to seem as if my sole intention was to reach my destination with as much speed and as little contact as possible. People pushed against me on the crowded pave way, but I continued onward, firmly shouldering aside those who _could_, yet would not make room for me. Despite all this, I could still hear snatches of their strange conversations…

"The poor mother–"

"That man! What a scoundrel!"

"Yes, but they were ruined just the same…"

"And what became of the girls?"

"I don't like the look of this speculation business–"

"I fear it may already be too late…"

I wasn't quite sure how it had happened or how much time had passed, but suddenly I had stopped in front of a door – _my _front door. I pushed it open and stumbled into my house, eager to hide my face from the world and its contempt.

I tried to block out those memories, ones which – though formed mere minutes ago – had the power to send me careening into a whirlwind of misery…but they _would_ come, they _would_ intrude, and I felt too weak and overwhelmed to stop them.

* * *

_Turning down the street upon which M. Montparnasse resided, I was struck afresh by the unheeding lavishness of the houses that lined the block. They were large and richly ornamented, lifted away from the meanness and dirt of the street and its inhabitants by stairways made of the smoothest pavement. I estimated these houses to cost at least several thousand francs a year, and I felt my nose wrinkle momentarily in puzzled disgust: what need had a _bachelor _for a home like this?_

_But I pushed this thought from my mind with force. M. Montparnasse was a business colleague, not a friend with whom I could entertain the audacity to question his personal taste!_

_As I neared his house, a new spring entered my step. Really, I thought that this visit was entirely unnecessary, for I had complete confidence in my associate and his plan for financial success. He had assured me that he would undertake more than usual care in this venture: every precaution would be taken, every loophole would be foreseen and sidestepped._

_With a seasoned and experienced entrepreneur like M. Montparnasse, what worry could I possibly have?_

_Imagine, then, my consternation when I arrived at his house and saw a carriage – haphazardly filled almost to the brim with boxes, luggage, and other random objects – parked at the foot of the steps. I stared in amazement, first at the strangely shoddy appearance of the hansom, then at the figure which had just issued forth from M. Montparnasse's house. Despite the warm, slightly damp weather that was characteristic of Parisian summers, the man was bundled in several layers of mismatching clothes, his head covered both by a cap and a top hat._

_I scrutinized him as he turned to lock the door, muttering under his breath. No one owned the key that could lock that door, save M. Montparnasse himself – and yet, _he _walked with upright confidence, a characteristic which this man so totally lacked. No, this man hunched over the lock as if it were his most treasured possession, keeping his face obscure and half-hidden by the layers of his ridiculous outfit so that it was difficult to even _guess _his identity. _

_Nevertheless, when the man turned again to race, stooped, into the packed interior of the closed coach, I could not restrain myself from calling out: "Monsieur Montparnasse?"_

_What I saw next frightened me more than anything else I had ever seen in my life in Paris._

_

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_

Oh, why had I not listened to Annette? That dear, _dear_ woman of my heart; why had I spurned her and her honest advice so cruelly? Stupid, arrogant fool that I was! _Why_ did I not listen?

I trudged to the foot of the staircase and then struggled to make my way up each stair; I believe I crawled on my hands and knees to do so.

_Thud!_

My head throbbed dully after colliding with the corner of wall that jutted out at the head of the staircase. I placed a hand over the wound and let myself sink a few inches closer to the floor.

Ah, if only such blows would drive away those memories, make me forget –!

* * *

_I hardly recognized him. Innumerable wrinkles had appeared on his face, which was uncharacteristically pale. His hair – or what could be seen of it, peeking out from underneath his two hats – was now lank and dull, where it had once been rich and full. _

_But what had shocked me most was the unnatural expression in M. Montparnasse's eyes: they were lit with the feverish light of a terror that was almost feral in its intensity. It was as if, in saying his name, he had expected me to leap and tear out his throat, and he did not know whether to run or try to defend himself to the death._

_I removed my hat, hoping that a clearer view of my features would calm him._

_He squinted at me; then, in a hoarse whisper that barely carried over the customary sounds of the street: "Jules? Jules Giry? Is that you?"_

_I nodded. "It is I. But," I approached slowly, still shaken by the fear I had seen in his eyes, "what is all this? Surely you aren't thinking of removing, not so quickly after your latest scheme?"_

"Thinking _of removing" was a gross understatement on my part, but M. Montparnasse took no notice of my slip._

"_It is because of that wretched scheme that I am leaving! Oh, that I chose to become a speculator!" he moaned tragically as he wrung his hands._

_I stepped closer, all caution forgotten. Stern dread at his next words knitted my brows together, and I asked, "What has happened? Remember that _I _am a part of that scheme as well!"_

_He stared at me amazement. "Have you not heard?"_

"_Heard _what_?"_

_He seized me by the upper arms, his eyes burning strangely. "Someone outed us! Someone reported us all to the police! Now the cops have seized control of our accounts and stopped the final stage of our plan! We are all ruined!"_

_I felt my face drain of all colour. I faintly remembered M. Montparnasse mentioning the names of three other men who were involved in his plan, but I had never met them. And now – because of this – because of _him_…_

_I backed away from him slowly, shaking my head as I escaped his brittle grasp._

Ruined?

"_You never told me that what we were doing was _illegal_!"_

_All of the breath in his lungs seemed to whoosh out at once. "I-I thought…after the strike of '76 – you know how these government officials are: the moment they hear of some new misbehavior, they try to-to do something about it…but surely you must have known –"_

"I_? I am not an attorney in that I know every iota of the law! How could you expect a _fish merchant _such as myself to automatically know _everything _that is and isn't legal?"_

_I shook my head again. "And to think that I _trusted _you after all of your ridiculous assertions that this scheme was foolproof, that there was no _possible _way we could lose –" _

"_You didn't seem to care so much about _that _when I told you how much money you could make!" he retorted sharply. My eyes flew back to his, my countenance instantly livid. "And obviously I wasn't _expecting _someone to turn Judas and report us all! I thought that the promise of that much gold would garner more than enough protection from _that_!"_

_We both glared at each other for several long moments._

_I glanced at the carriage that seemed more than ready to fall over with the weight of everything Montparnasse had put inside, and then looked back at him. "And now you're leaving?"_

"_Well, I can't really do anything else, can I?" His eyes were still smoldering with the remnants of his temper. I clenched my jaw in response._

"_And what am _I _supposed to do?"_

"_Follow my example –" _

"_I wouldn't word it like that if I were you," I warned._

_Montparnasse quirked one haughty eyebrow, then continued. "Take your girls, take your most treasured possessions, and leave Paris. The police are out for blood, so to speak, and if they hear even the slightest rumor that you are still here…"_

_I nodded reluctantly._

"_You remember my mentioning M. Champeau to you? He was arrested just this morning and is being sent to a debtor's prison: not solely on account of this particular scheme, but others as well."_

_My eyes widened in panic. I did not like to think that I was so deeply entrenched in speculation as Montparnasse or his close friends, but this was certainly _not _the first scheme that I had been involved in. If I were arrested…_

"_If they arrest you, it is likely – no, it is _certain _that your wife, daughter, and niece will be sent to a workhouse to support themselves and help pay off your debt."_

_I stared at the ground, trying desperately hard _not _to imagine my girls being subject to the rigorous tyranny of a workhouse. My Anne, with her strong will and love of beauty, would suffer immensely from the total lack of splendor and art in such a monotonous, ugly place. Christine, with her boundless imagination and compassion for others, could _never _bear to be shut up in the company of such infinite misery. _

_And Meg, fiery _little _Meg…_

"_But I'm afraid I cannot stay any longer!" Montparnasse cut in curtly. "I must go; I am only surprised that the police did not start with arresting _me_." He turned and stepped quickly into the carriage: for one bizarre moment, it seemed that the addition of his weight would send it toppling over into the street. _

_But he climbed into it without incident, rapped his fist smartly against the underside of its cover, and then my last hope for financial rectification disappeared down the busy avenue._

_

* * *

_

I pulled my knees to my chest, holding my feet in a perched position at the edge of my seat. I had stumbled my way into our diminutive library and sat myself down upon the chintz chair in front of my maplewood desk. Now, I leaned my forehead against my knees and wrapped my arms around my torso, ignoring the tight strain in my clothes this position evinced. My breath came in ragged gasps, as if I were sobbing tearless sobs, and despite the heat, I shuddered uncontrollably.

All was lost. Everything we had worked for: security, happiness, peace, a place in the world – it was all gone, taken away in a matter of moments, never to be regained. I had wagered the house, my whole business, our accounts – virtually everything we owned, so foolishly confident was I that we would receive it all doubled, if not tripled. I had wanted to prove myself in a world where the rich and talented were adored and the poor were scorned. I had wanted to be remembered as a successful man who had risen above the squalor of Paris with only a little smart thinking and an iron will.

And now…it was all gone.

Why, why why _why_ had I not listened to my wife? _Why_ had I been so close-minded, so unwilling to listen to her pleas? I had been too puffed up in my pride; I had mistaken her entreaties for insults against my judgment and skill – _or lack thereof_ – as a businessman. Not only that, but I had hurt her: I had seen it in her eyes before I had left this morning.

And what made it worse, what made me feel so like a spoiled child – and therefore miserable – was that I had originally meant to! When she had repeated again and again her request that I withdraw my funds from the scheme, I was annoyed and had taken offense where none was intended. I had been selfish and arrogant, thinking that simply because _I _was the businessman, _I_ knew better than her! I thought that, because I was personally acquainted with Montparnasse, I had a better idea of his character than Annette, who had only heard account of his dealings from fellow members of the opera company and others in our relatively small social circle!

But I had been willingly deceived by Montparnasse, blinded by my own gullibility and greed, which had donned the mask of desiring to raise my family above the mean things of the world. I had dared to raise my eyes to the heavens, thus losing my footing on earth, and was now plummeting down to hell.

Annette had been right: I had lost everything. Because of my own utter _foolishness_, we were now destitute, ruined, and my innocent family would shoulder the blame and grief.

Oh, I could not bear it! To be arrested, chained to degradation whilst I slaved away to hoard penance for my wrong was justice, but for my _family_ to be punished as well –! To force them to work in a hell such as the workhouse, force them everyday to run the gauntlet that was our cold and haughty society, who would jeer and laugh in their faces for something that _I _had done – no, it could not be endured!

If only there was a way to end it all –

_Other men have died for less, you know…_

My gaze was inexplicably drawn to the drawer on my right, the one that currently hid the pistol that I kept loaded at all times. In one unknowingly fluid movement, I lowered my feet to the floorboards and painstakingly reached for the carved handle of that drawer.

Slowly, ever so slowly, it creaked and pulled open at my touch.

I reached underneath the layers of papers – all meaningless now – and closed my fingers around the cold, cylindrical object that I knew I would find. I pulled it out, then leaned my elbows against my knees as I held the pistol in my two hands. Feeling numb, I could only gaze at it, hypnotized.

How could such a small thing be so powerful? Not simply in terms of the damage it could inflict upon the human body, but it also had the power to take away _everything_ that I had suffered and would suffer. It could remove me, take me away so that I would not burden those whom I love. It would not deceive me, it would not punish me. It could _all_ be over.

_They could not miss me: a disappointment, such as myself…_

Gently, I turned it so that I could peer down into the black space that was its barrel.

_Ah, yes._ I could trust this firearm to sink me safely into the dark arms of Death. I could sleep for eternity in the grave, all of my trials and tribulations finished. All it took was a good aim and a pull of the trigger, and everything would simply disappear…

_Everything?_

"_I love you, papa!"_

I raised my head, shocked at the sound of Meg's cheerful voice, which echoed in my ears. My eyes searched wildly around the small room for a sign of her, but by then I had already realized: it was all inside my head. It was the memory of my daughter's farewell from this morning which had arbitrarily replayed in my mind, so vivid in the recollection that it had almost seemed real.

There was no one in the room save myself. I closed my eyes, exhausted, and temporarily gave myself up to the memories of this morning – _had so little time passed?_ I felt as if a lifetime had passed away since those sun-filled moments…

Behind my eyelids, I could see my daughter. Her gold-spun tresses framed her rosy face, her clear blue eyes smiled with guileless joy and love, her petite hand held up in a gesture of farewell.

"_I love you, papa!"_

Then, Christine's face swam to the surface of my recollections. I could still easily remember how her rich brown eyes – surrounded by a startling wealth of black lashes – had also held pure love in their depths. Her pink lips had been curved in a serene smile, like so; her white arms were held up as she tried to combat her disobedient curls – nearly the same shade as her eyes – into submission, and pull them back into a bun.

"_I love you as well, uncle!"_

I saved the best memory of this morning for last. Annette, as she held her place at our small dining table like a lofty queen at court, her blessed hazel eyes speaking volumes. That last kiss we had shared: her red lips moving with mine, more of an honest declaration of love than any number of words she could have employed.

_Love._

It was all around me, and I had been blind to it. I had taken it for granted, and it had nearly cost me.

_Love._

I opened my eyes, and the magic of those warm memories dimmed. When I glanced down, the sight of the dark gun barrel – so horrifying in its emptiness – jarred me so that I nearly dropped it.

"_No_."

My ragged whisper startled me, for at first I had not realized that I had spoken aloud. But the sound of my own voice – _choosing_ to refuse – strengthened my resolve, and my upper lip curled slightly in self-disgust.

"No," I repeated: louder and stronger this time. I laid the pistol along the edge of my desk, deliberately positioning it so that the barrel pointed away. My hands trembled as I placed them over my eyes, the heels of my palms creating a slight pressure against my eyeballs.

That was _not_ the answer. It mattered not how inadequate I felt, or how much despair weighed down my soul; I could _not_ do this. I could _not_ take myself out of this world. Not now…

Not when my family needed me most.

I tried to concentrate on breathing deeply, calming my thoughts and forcing me to think rationally. If I did this – if I followed the path that others in my same predicament had taken – what would happen to those whom I love? Would I even _deserve_ to claim that I love them, if I followed through on this supreme act of selfishness?

No, I could not.

This situation was bad as it was; to take myself away, even before my family was made aware of the misfortune that had fallen upon us, would be even worse. In a world ruled so absolutely by the rough and commanding members of my sex, there was no possible – that is, _honorable_ – way that a widow with two girls to support and raise could survive. They would suffer _far_ more pain and degradation that way than anything my blunders could muster.

And, too, I believed in a just God. If I left this world for His and thus abandoned my family here, I did not think that He would be even inclined to be merciful upon my soul.

I had been proud, I had been selfish – but if I had submitted to the temptation I had glimpsed within that black, empty space, I would have hurt my family millions of times over. I had to hold on to their love, draw strength from their presence, for what else was there?

No, this – this was not the answer.

But then…what _was_? If I were sent to a debtor's prison, I would be nearly as dead to my family as if I _had_ taken my life. The considerable debt that I was in could not possibly be repaid within a lifetime – well, not in what was surely left of _my_ lifetime. And – Annette, Meg, Christine, forced to work in a workhouse…no – no, no I could not bear to think of them in such a dank, rotten place, not when everything was _my_ fault…

Montparnasse had spoken of leaving, of running away. Well, it was easy for _him_! Playing the usual cunning entrepreneur, he had amassed several houses over the years: all under different names and in various places around the continent, in case an emergency such as this should arise.

We were not as well off. This house, this business that would no longer be mine, was all we had. We had no other houses, no other family. I shuddered again as the magnitude of our isolation in Paris struck me anew. Annette's parents had died long ago, and Gisèle had been her only sibling before she too had passed on with her husband. _My_ mother was still alive, but she and I were estranged beyond restoration, and Esbjörne's parents, Christine's grandparents…we could spend years searching Sweden before we found them, _if_ they were still alive.

And yet, we could not stay here. I could _not_ let it happen!

As if my thoughts had taken wings and called them home, I suddenly heard the unmistakable sounds of my girls entering the house. The door creaked open, and I could hear Annette's purposeful tread, Christine's graceful gait, and Meg's light steps as they walked in.

"Is anyone home?" Annette called into the house, a strange edge to her voice.

I very nearly answered, when a sudden thought froze me as surely as if ice-cold water had suddenly cascaded down my back.

_How would they react, once they knew?_

Would they be angry? Would they fall into despair? Would they still love and support me? Would –

_Oh, heavens…_

Would Annette demand a divorce?

I began to shake and tremble again; my teeth chattered uncontrollably. The sounds of Annette walking from room to room downstairs barely registered inside my mind as I forced myself to consider that awful situation.

Of course I would grant it to her, if she desired it: I would _never_ keep her against her will! If – after she discovered how I had single-handedly ruined us all – she believed that she could live and raise the girls much better without me, I would not stand in her way.

But…_Anne_…

I have never been of a poetic – or descriptive – turn, and thus it is sometimes hard to say exactly how I feel, but I knew this much: _I could not live without my wife. _She is – she is like a light in my life: without her, my soul would be plunged into darkness, and life would cease to have meaning for me.

I needed her – but I could not bear to see her unhappy either.

"Jules?" Annette called as she began to mount the stairs.

_Oh, come! Come and find me, and let this horrid anticipation be over!_

I heard her pause by the door to the library, which I had left ajar.

"Jules?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," I replied. To my dismay, it came out as a broken whisper.

She hesitated but a moment, and then slowly pushed the door open.

"Oh, my…what happened?"

I lowered my hands, opened my eyes, and then looked up at her.

Anne stood in the doorway, her back straight and rigid. Her face was unusually pale, making her hazel eyes, slightly parted red lips, and black hair – held up in its usual braided bun – all the more pronounced. Her eyes held an uncertain fear in their depths, and – though I have no way of being certain – I'm sure that my eyes mirrored her same expression.

I had never seen – and most likely would never again see – anything so beautiful.

She spoke again. "Jules? What has happened?"

_What could I say?_

She crossed the small space between the door and the desk behind which I was seated. I took notice of the way her eyes flickered between mine and where I had left the pistol – _curse me for a fool!_ – upon the smooth, maplewood surface, but I could not find the words to reassure her.

Anne kneeled down in front of me. Slowly, yet gracefully, she took the pistol into her hands and put it on the floor just out of my reach, he eyes never leaving my face. She then placed her hands on my knees: this on account of the fact that I had turned the chair to my right when I had first pulled it out, and had not felt the strength to move it since.

"_Please_, Jules; tell me what happened."

I looked into her eyes, silently pleading: _Please, don't leave me…_

"Oh, Anne," I sobbed, and then held her in my arms as I wept into the curve of her neck.

* * *

A/N: And now, my lovely readers, what do you think is going to happen next? 


	5. Chapter Four: The Leave Taking

_**Chapter Four: **_

_**The Leave Taking**_

_**-Christine-

* * *

**_

"In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this inconsequential town more than any other place in the United States of America...

It was to Forks I now exiled myself – an action that I took with great horror. I detested Forks.

I loved Phoenix . I loved the sun and the blistering heat. I loved the vigorous, sprawling city."

- Stephenie Meyer, _Twilight

* * *

_

The air hung close and still when we left Paris . Like a ruby lit from within, the sun was setting in all its majestic glory, painting the sky in vivid orange, tangerine, and pink as it began to disappear over the horizon.

Despite the bright light, I looked mournfully over my shoulder to have one last glimpse of my beloved birth-city.

The dying sun cast a ruddy glow over Paris, a glow which was further reflected by the metal rooftops and the rippling waters of the Seine . The city seemed to have the glorious appearance of an open jewelry box that had caught fire.

My eyes watered – whether from the light or from my own emotions, I could not tell – and I struggled to focus them so that I could see as much as possible.

Even through the blur in my vision, I could see the tall, intricately carved towers of the Notre Dame cathedral: standing straight and proud, as a sovereign lady whom the city had sworn to protect for centuries upon end. Though they were not nearly as tall, the heights of the _Palais de l'Elysée_, the _Louvre_, and the _Palais Royal_ soared above the common rooftops. And –

_Oh, there it was…_

– that gaudy palace of all my hopes and dreams, _l'Opèra Populaire. _Its gilded finery shone and sparkled in the light of the sky, and I fancied that I could even see the bronze speck that was the statue of Apollo upon the roof.

I let out a resigned sigh. My soul felt heavy with the knowledge that I would never return to that place. I had been raised in the Opera house – I had very nearly been born there – and I had had high hopes of living out my life there. In the past, when my legs and feet were aching from ballet practice, or my heart was aching from the rumors whispered by the girls in my classes, my imagination would spin a lovely tale about my glorious future…

The details were never quite the same, but it always began with a renowned, mysterious voice teacher who, through some fated circumstances, heard my voice and decided that I would benefit much more from voice lessons than from the study of ballet. He or she would then teach me, and through the fire of music and training I would become an extraordinary, exalted creature with the voice of an angel. I would go on to become _prima donna_ of Garnier's opera house, but I would always be grateful to my teacher, who had lifted me up and enabled me to share my gift with the world. Perhaps around this time I would meet someone, a talented tenor or violinist, and we would fall passionately in love with each other. We would marry, and after a long and successful career in opera, would pass the torch – so to speak – on to someone else, and live out the rest of our lives in a comfortable flat by the Tuileries.

It could never happen, now.

We were little more than destitute: save for the expense of a new place to live, we would have to rebuild our lives up from the beginning. Even if we were able to form a successful life in Rouen, it did not signify that I could make such a life were I to someday return to Paris; I would be _lucky _if I were still in the twilight of my prime by the time I could afford such a change of circumstance! Too, I had had much more training in the ballet, compared to the two years of voice lessons I had taken so long ago at the feet of…of my father.

And – _selfish child!_ I berated myself, wondering why this had not occurred to me before – were I to receive even a hint of public notice, my name would surely attract the attention of the local police. They would know – or, if they didn't, they would surely discover – my relation to Jules Giry, and then they would come "investigating". The inspectors would be relentless: they would spare no quarter, would never grant me or those with _any _ties to me a moment's peace, until they had found and imprisoned my uncle. We would then be mired in that which we were so desperately fighting to escape from.

No: there could be no Paris in my future. That chapter of my life was over.

As this realization began to sink in, I felt the corners of my lips turn down in sorrow.

_Tears will come next, if I continue to look…_

I turned my head to face front and squared my shoulders. Rows upon rows of trees met my gaze, trees which – thankfully – only just disguised the years-abandoned trail that wound west, and then curved to the north. My Uncle Giry hoped that, by traveling this route, we would escape detection and…_unfriendly_ persons.

I winced as several loose stones in the road caused the old wagon we now rode in to bounce and jiggle most horribly.

That did not mean that our travels would be made any more _comfortable_.

A strange noise – something between a sob and a hiccup being choked back – startled me, and I turned. When we had first departed, Meg had put up a stoic front, holding herself together very admirably for an eight-year-old. But now, as we entered the dark expanse of the forest…everything beloved and familiar behind us, never to be seen again…she broke down. Meg had begun to cry.

My poor, aching heart was already full, and as I looked into my dear little cousin's eyes – shining like sapphires through her tears – I felt it overflow. She looked up at me with such naked sadness and uncertainty in her eyes, and it cut me to the core to see her so.

_What do I do…?_

Hesitantly, I reached out with my hand to her small head, and then began guiding it towards me.

That was all it took. In an instant, she had wrapped her arms around my waist, buried her face into my chest, and had begun to cry into my blouse. For one second, I was taken aback by her sudden emotion…but then I too placed my arms about her – one around her small waist, the other across her shoulders. I rested my cheek atop her head, and let my own silent tears course down my cheeks and into Meg's flaxen curls.

* * *

When we had first returned home that ill-fated afternoon, we had been surprised to discover that the front door had been left unlocked. Meg and I – with hands clasped tightly – had trailed behind Aunt Giry as she investigated each room to ascertain the presence of anything amiss.

When our search of the ground floor proved to be fruitless, my aunt bade Meg and I remain in the parlor while she searched the upstairs. We had waited readily enough, but when it had been more than several minutes since Aunt Giry had stopped calling my uncle's name, my easily excitable imagination become excited indeed.

_Please, don't let there be an intruder_, I prayed silently as I opened the door and peered into the hallway –

I was instantly reassured, however. Though their words were indiscernible, I could still hear the mingled sounds of my uncle's and my aunt's voices drifting from the vicinity of the library.

I had admonished Meg several times to have patience as we lingered in the parlor: she believed that, as there apparently was no intruder, we should be able to leave the parlor and do what we wished – within reason. However, her mother had told us not to leave the room until she had returned to us, and she and my uncle were certainly in the middle of some private conference.

But then, I could not deny the truth which Meg later spoke, as she fixed me with a piercing stare not unlike her mother's:

"You can't deny that they are taking an _awful_ long time."

Almost as if it were a reflex, I asked her not to say "awful", as it was a slang word. Then, with a pointed look that clearly said – as my ballet teacher would say – "stay put", I rose from my chair and tiptoed into the hallway. Total silence reigned now, and I felt my brow wrinkle in confusion as I crept up the stairs.

_What in the world had –?_

"Oh, my goodness, child!"

Thin, strong hands held my upper arms in a firm grip, and I whipped my head around and up to meet – _oh! _– my aunt's piercing gaze. I had nearly walked into her as she was slipping out of the library; as she let me go to place a hand over her heart, I felt my eyes slide past her, past the open door, to the library's interior –

The door closed abruptly, and I looked back at my aunt, a slight frown etched into her features.

"I was just coming to fetch you and Meg," she said, and it was with a feeling of trepidation that I noticed the low, yet urgent tone with which she uttered those words.

And then she whispered the words which would irrevocably seal my fate.

"Christine…we are leaving."

My face went slack with shock. I felt as if a great weight pressed against my chest: my heart seemed to stutter, and I had to force my lungs to breathe properly. I stared at my aunt as if she had spoken in tongues, my face draining of all colour, my hands hanging limply at my sides.

_Is it a dream?_

"_Leaving?_" I whispered. My words could not come out any stronger. "N-no, there must be some mistake…we _can't_ leave –"

"Christine, _please_," my aunt hissed in an undertone as she guided me further down the corridor, "for the love of common decency, _do not _make a scene! There will be a time for tears later; right now, we must leave Paris with as much haste as possible."

I shook my head, confused. "I-I don't understand…why must we leave? And where are we going?"

Aunt Giry stared at me, but it was not the rude stare of one who thought my question too stupid or too ridiculous to be believed. Rather, it had the look of cautious assessment, of wondering how much knowledge could be entrusted to me.

I tried very hard not to shrink under that gaze.

She then briefly explained to me the tale of our ruin. It was a story of woe nearly worthy of the stage, which featured my Uncle Giry as the tragic hero and a speculator – one Monsieur Montparnasse – as the evil villain.

Once upon a time, my uncle had been persuaded by this double-crossing libertine to become involved in a high-risk scheme. I was not entirely sure what this meant; I had no talent for – or remote interest in – matters of business and financials. However, my aunt assured me that it was enough to know that, if the scheme had been a success, an amazingly large amount of money would have been the product; if it failed, every man involved would have had to be sent to work in a chain gang to pay off his debt.

The speculators would never know if their scheme would have been a success or a failure. What they did not know – or what M. Montparnasse did not tell them, as my aunt said – was that a relatively new law had been passed, which outlawed several of the actions that were crucial to their scheme. Someone – whether inside this circle of schemers or outside, no one save the police knew – had reported their illegal deeds. The police had done everything they could to cease all further production of the scheme, and then had gone on in search of those who had played any part in it. Some had been easy to find, but others – M. Montparnasse and my uncle included – proved harder to trace: either because they had been too cunning to leave an easy trail, or because they were considered too "low" in society to be noticed.

It was this unimportance which was to buy us time. If we wished to escape my uncle's imminent arrest, it was _imperative_ that we leave Paris as soon as possible.

* * *

I never discovered how exactly my aunt had explained our sudden need for departure to Meg. After she had finished telling me this news, I drifted into my room in a complete daze. My thoughts were disconnected and hazy; it was as if the smoke that was continually belched out by the city's factories had blown into my head and clouded my mind. Everything I looked at seemed oddly separate from me, as if I had just walked into a stranger's house.

I reached my room. My gaze seemed to slip and slide past the objects within, half-hidden by the shadows: my narrow bed; my carved armoire, with the small collection of books and sheet music that lay atop it; my simply-painted dressing screen…

My blood ran cold in my veins as I imagined the local _gendarmes_ in this house – my safe haven outside of the opera house – imagined them trampling their way through each beloved room, breaking things in the wake of their mad chase. I clenched my fists as I imagined them standing in this very spot, leering at the sparse yet romantic furnishings of my room, their rough masculine voices echoing in the place where I had worked so hard to build a new life…

Like a wave upon the ocean which slowly builds until it crashes upon the shore, a rare feeling of righteous fury began to swell in my chest. It grew and grew until it broke upon my arms and legs, which trembled angrily.

_No! They shall _not _have this!_

Thus spurred into action, I crossed the room in large, powerful strides and threw back the draperies. Sunlight flooded the room as I turned, pulled my portmanteau out from its hiding place underneath my bed, and unlatched it as it lay across the floor. I raced to my armoire and began unpacking clothes; I believe I nearly flew in my haste to pack everything I could.

_I should bring this – ah yes, my yellow muslin! – I can leave that – what else? Stockings…_

The portmanteau was nearly full by the time I had finished packing as many necessary – and several irreplaceable – articles of clothing as I thought was – well, necessary. Pivoting slowly in the center of the room, I stared at each object with an analytical eye, one index finger tapping my chin in a restless tempo that matched the speed of my thoughts.

_What else what else what else…_

I leaped forward and snatched the few music sheets left to me by my father, then pulled off – more gently, this time – a tall book of medium width. Within its pages, one could find an anthology of faery tales, lovingly written by the hands of my parents. I carefully placed the music sheets inside the book's leather cover, then deftly slid my fingers underneath my mattress and pulled out my diary.

_How strange, the earth-shattering changes that can occur within a day…_

Holding the diary and the faery tales together, I wrapped them both inside my scarf. My mother had meant it as a gift for my tenth birthday, and so I had treasured it ever since. It was a perfect size, neither too long nor too short, and made of the softest chenille that was the colour of crimson apples on a crisp fall morning. I buried my face in its folds, inhaling the inherent scent of roses that always seemed to emanate from its material, and whispered a small prayer for my family's future.

After I had placed my makeshift package and a years-old pair of house slippers on top of my clothes and other necessities in the portmanteau, I frowned resignedly.

There was room for nothing else.

I met my uncle in the corridor as I was carrying out my things. Due to the fact that my portmanteau would have been considered somewhat small for someone my age – not to mention the years spent strengthening my muscles – I was able to carry everything easily. What was not so easy was looking Uncle Giry in the eye for the first time after hearing of what had come to pass.

His face became a degree paler, and his eyes seemed to both hold and shrink from mine. My heart ached for him as I saw the naked emotion in his eyes: regret, pain, shame, and fear creating a bitter yet poignant blend within those blue depths. I felt my throat constrict as I realized that those feelings were directed at me…but then I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. I would show him that I did not blame him for what had happened to us, that I harbored no ill feeling towards him. If I felt any fear or regret in that moment, I did not let it show in my face as I told him, in a voice that sounded much more steady than I felt:

"I am ready."

* * *

Our journey to Rouen was largely uneventful. For two days we rode in or walked alongside our horse-and-cart all day, only stopping to rest for a noon meal. When the sun set, we would stop again and set up camp at a safe distance from the trail: far enough away that a traveler could not easily see us, but close enough for us to see anyone sojourning upon that road. We would prepare and eat supper, and then try to get as much sleep as we could while lying on the forest floor, wrapped up in whatever could be found. The next morning, we would rise early to eat whatever breakfast we could put together – more often than not the remnants of last night's meal – destroy any and all traces of our presence there, and continue on the road.

Meg and I liked to walk alongside the old mare and wind our cold fingers through her hair as we waited for the sun to rise above the treetops. It had been a risk getting her _and_ the wagon, but it was a risk my uncle had been willing to take. We had certainly waited anxiously enough while my uncle's friend and colleague – one Legrand by name – had gone in search of some covert means of transportation for us: preferably, means that would not be missed in such a large city. Our relief was nearly tangible when he had returned, not with the local _gendarmes_ as we had half-feared, but with this middle-aged grey mare and a simple, open wagon.

It was because of Legrand's act of loyalty and friendship that we were able to leave Paris as quickly as we did, and were now making our way to Rouen at our speed. Though the mare was somewhat old, she was still in possession of an innate strength and quickness of foot that helped her to navigate the sloped, abandoned terrain in a way that would have disheartened a younger horse. Had it not been for her, our journey would surely have taken at least twice as long.

Though I silently dreaded the exhausting travel that lay ahead of us each morning, I also dreaded – though not quite as much – its end. I had only ever lived in Paris; in fact, I had never left the city's boundaries in the whole course of my life, and I was unsure of what to expect. I had heard stories from my fellow classmates and others who frequented the opera house of Rouen and its inhabitants: like Paris, Rouen was also built upon the banks of the river Seine, so many of its citizens had made their fortune through the fishing industry, among others; though Rouen was by no means small, it had not grown so large that the residents did not know who nearly everyone was; it was the home of a very beautiful cathedral; and, unlike Paris, its structure had not been altered when Napoleon had held power.

I was much more inclined to believe these simple stories than some of the more ridiculously elaborate tales I had heard, many of which denounced and mocked the more conservative lifestyles of the people of Rouen. I could not believe that so many people could be as intolerant of others as they had been painted to be…yet, during the times when we were the most silent as we traveled, or in the dark moments between consciousness and sleep, I felt the chill of a slight fear descend upon my heart. Were those stories really true? How would we be treated when we arrived? Would we be able to make friends? Would _anyone_ look upon us with friendly, unprejudiced eyes?

I knew that we had no other prospective home but Rouen. My now-deceased great-uncle on my mother's side had been so pleased with my Aunt Giry's attentiveness towards him when he had been recovering from a serious illness many years ago, that he had left her what could only be called a letter of recommendation. That cottage which lay just on the outskirts of the city was not his to give, but he had put in several pages worth of good words vouching for my aunt and her family as excellent tenants, pages which we were only to present to Philippe de Chagny – the mayor of Rouen – to be allowed to move in.

My family and I were of course eternally grateful for this; these events could not have turned out better than if it had all been by design! Yet, that same feeling of trepidation towards my fellow human beings seemed to haunt me more and more as we approached our destination.

I wish I could say that I did not care for their opinions, that I would brave any contempt and criticism, so long as my family was safe and happy…but I had learned long ago to _never_ underestimate man's power to make life utterly miserable.

* * *

The third day after we had left Paris was very much the same as its predecessors.

We arose early, our muscles cramped and sore from traveling and sleeping on the hard forest floor. We took turns riding in the wagon or walking next to it as we made our way to the outskirts of the forest and began climbing a gentle hill. Suddenly, as we cleared the crest, we saw below us a majestic, sweeping sight:

Rouen.

* * *

_A/N: I apologize for the shortness of this chapter, especially as I was planning to make it directly proportional to the amount of time you all had to wait for me to write and put it up here. For those of you who weren't aware of this, I got s**eriously **over-involved with choirs and performances this past Christmas season - never a good idea unless you have lots of free time on your hands. But, I am back now!_

_This chapter is dedicated to Kates, whose writing continues to influence and inspire me, and who has been friendly and patient with me for several years now. :-) I also want to thank LadyRiah, Emerald Cloud, and pastheart for being the only ones to review chapter 3! You three are awesome!_

_You will leave this little authoress some love, won't you?_


	6. Chapter Five: Build This Life With Me

**_A/N:_** I have been working on this chapter since I last updated, and I wanted to make it longer, but I realized that I was coming to a place where I could plausibly end this chapter with still enough content left to make another chapter after this, so...there it is. :) Also, please keep in mind that this is a crossover. I have tried to keep Rouen as true to the time as possible, but there are some things that must needs be changed to suit the story. Until I wrote this, I didn't quite realize the delicate balance required to mix the elements of an important - politically, historically, and economically, among others - riverside city in France and a little no-name (actually, I think the name quite romantic) town sprung up out of the dust and hard work of the United States's Great Depression (a.k.a. Castlegate, for the people who have not seen _Rigoletto_).

A couple of people have asked me when Erik will finally enter the story, and for those of you who have asked and/or have contemplated asking, I will say this: in the second chapter after this one, exactly. I'm thinking that the next chapter will not be quite so long either, so there is less time to wait!

Enjoy, _mes amis_!

(POTO, Rigoletto, and any source quoted are not mine.)

P.S. What do you all think of me posting a playlist of recommended songs for this story?

**_

* * *

_**

**_Chapter Five:_**

_**Build This Life With Me**_

_**-Christine-

* * *

**_

"'You'll come home to two fully functioning chimneys,' [Lionheart promised, 'or I'm going to drown myself in the well…'...

"Lionheart, after her first few encounters…(it was inevitably Lionheart who, flinging herself through the door at speed, had caught a superficial blow of the thorny branches across the forehead…), had wanted to have it and all its fellows out…and had offered herself 'as the blood sacrifice,' she said. 'You can bury my flayed body under the doorstone to bring yourselves luck afterwards.'

"'Having failed to drown yourself in our well a few weeks ago?' enquired Jeweltongue. 'You are such a life profligate. You'll be offering next to hurl yourself off the roof for – for – it escapes me what for, but I'm sure you'll think of something.'"

- Robin McKinley, _Rose Daughter

* * *

_

I could not help staring at virtually everything we passed by as we descended down the hill and made our way into the city proper. Save for where it had been built along the river banks, Rouen was surrounded on all sides by gentle, rolling hills. The city itself was not built like Paris, where every single lot had been neatly organized according to its position relative to the main island; rather, it appeared that each building had been placed simply according to the convenience and desire of the builder, organization be forgotten.

As we drew closer to the heart of the city, I noticed too that the streets were much more narrow, and that some of the houses had been built in an older style – "half-timbered", I think my aunt had called them. We passed by the Notre Dame cathedral – the spires of which I had seen very easily from the hillside: unquestionably an extremely beautiful place, but also as tall and narrow as the buildings that surrounded it. I longed to comment on this prevalent design of architecture, and to speculate on whether it reflected the physical traits of this city's inhabitants – but I caught myself when I saw how my uncle's mouth had become set in a grim, determined line, and contented myself with holding my cousin's hand as we walked alongside the wagon.

Thanks to the directions in the letter left by my great-uncle, we were able to find the main square without large incident. It was a cobblestone affair of medium size, with a modest marble fountain that splashed merrily in the center. We were surrounded by shops and stalls, and the people who frequented them stared at us with frank curiosity in their eyes. My cheeks began to feel warm as the sensation of butterflies' wings filled my stomach region; Meg's grip on my hand tightened.

Suddenly, we heard a loud greeting above the noise of the street.

"_Bonjour!_"

We stopped, then turned as one to see who had hailed us.

At first glance, many would term this man simple. The features of his face were plain and unassuming, his hair was dark blonde in colour and of a medium length, and his small eyes – protected by a pair of spectacles – were dark brown. His body – which was neither fat nor thin, nor was it much taller than I was – was covered in the tawny clothes of a shopkeeper. His pure white apron was spotless.

"Welcome to Rouen!" he called out as he approached us. "If you are in need of a place to stay for the night, we have some wonderful inns here that I'm sure would be happy to accommodate you."

"Thank you, sir," my uncle replied, "but we are in more need of Philippe de Chagny's assistance than that of the local inn."

The man smiled. "Well, you have come to the right place. I am Philippe de Chagny, mayor of this city and owner of the general goods store, which you see behind me." He gestured to the modest building behind him, then turned back to us, his hands clasped. "How may I help you, monsieur…?"

"Giry," my uncle finished. "I am Jules Giry; this is my wife Annette–" placing a hand on her shoulder, "–my daughter Marguerite–" Meg inclined her head, unable to tear her wide eyes away from M. de Chagny's, "–and my niece, Christine Daaé."

I bowed my head, adding a slight bending of the knees for good measure. If M. de Chagny took any notice of my uncle's choice of words, he certainly did not show it, but instead smiled cordially and bowed to us all.

"It truly is a pleasure to meet you! Now, how may I be of assistance?"

My aunt descended from her sitting place next to my uncle at the head of the wagon, the fated letter in hand. "I believe you knew my uncle, the late Jacques Lecroix?"

I thought I detected a faint hint of surprise beneath M. de Chagny's smiling exterior when my aunt – instead of my uncle – had been the one to address him, but surprise quickly changed to delight when she uttered my great-uncle's name.

"Ah, yes! M. Lecroix was a dear, dear friend of mine…"

I felt my attention to the unfolding tableau before me start to falter. The mayor seemed pleasant enough…but there was something about him…he bored me slightly, yet there was something about him that set me on edge…I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I knew this: something was not quite right with this man.

However, he _was_ being very pleasant and polite, so I took the opportunity to further scrutinize my surroundings.

Not every building around the square held a shop. _Most_ of them did, but I also saw what could only be Rouen's own _Palais de Justice_. It was built in a similar style to the cathedral, but – despite the crème-coloured stone and the blue slate roofs – an ominous feeling of dread settled over me as I imagined everything that could have happened over the centuries, inside there…I quickly turned away.

There was a curious sort of clock (1) built on an archway that connected two buildings – buildings which guarded one of the streets that fed into the main square. The clock had a square border made of gold; the numbers – Roman numerals, I thought – were placed on a slate blue circle, and the middle was golden, with hands of a dark blue metal. It had intricate, swirling designs carved into its borders, and seemed so cheerful and yet out of place that I almost laughed.

_How utterly quaint!_

On the one side of it there were more shops, but on the other was –

_Oh wonders…_

– without a doubt one of the largest libraries I had ever seen.

It looked to be several floors high, and took up more than its fair share of its side of the square, the side across from the general goods store and where my aunt and M. de Chagny were still speaking. It was a _very_ fine place, composed of smooth stone and mortar, with many tall glass windows and intricate carvings around. Engaged pillars had been built in strategic places around its façade, giving the place a look reminiscent of the neoclassical movement that had taken France by storm more than a century ago. I bit my lip – a habit I had picked up when deep in thought, or curious about something – wondering when and how I could ever manage to get inside such a large, magnificent building that was surely overflowing with wonderful books.

Slowly, reluctantly, I turned back to where Aunt Giry and M. de Chagny were still conversing – and thus noticed a new addition to our gathering.

A young man had exited the general goods store and was making his way over to us. If he was my age, then he certainly did not have much more room to grow before he became a man; his limbs seemed a little long and awkward for him, but he maneuvered himself as best he could. He had handsome, boyish features, with hair of a shade not dissimilar from the mayor's, and his eyes were the clearest blue that I had ever seen.

Those eyes fell upon me as he neared M. de Chagny. He stopped for a moment…then a wide grin split his face, and his eyes sparkled.

I felt my heart begin to race as I realized that _a handsome young man was smiling directly at me_. I was unsure of what to do, but his smile was too contagious; I smiled tentatively back at him until I felt a blush begin to blossom in my cheeks, and then looked down at the cobblestone pavement. I felt flattered…and also annoyed.

I did not like being stared at.

"Of course, Mme. Giry, of course! I will personally see to it that you and your family are left in peace. You have nothing to fear while you live in Rouen."

"Thank you; you are very kind," my aunt murmured back to M. de Chagny. As he handed her up to her place atop the wagon – Uncle Giry frowned slightly – a speculative, almost adventuresome look appeared in the mayor's eyes.

"I say, why don't I show you the way to the Lecroix cottage? It's a little ways out of the city itself – in fact, it's closer to the city's boundaries than anything else – and I would hate for you all to get lost in our winding streets," he added with a rueful smile.

Surreptitiously, I glanced at my aunt and uncle. Judging from the expressions on their faces, they were surprised at the open, straightforward manner of a man who would spontaneously volunteer to guide four complete strangers to their new house…even though he _was _the mayor of Rouen.

I knew what they were thinking. It was the same thought that had passed through all of our minds ere M. de Chagny had finished speaking: _no one in Paris_ _would have so much as glanced at the arrival of a strange new family, let alone have offered to show them to their new home._

And yet, despite all of his kind words, I still felt strangely uncomfortable around our new mayor. Without pausing to reflect upon the ensuing consequences, I asked, none too archly: "But will you be able to leave your shop for so long, monsieur? It would be better that we be allowed to wander through these winding streets – where there will still be people to point us in the right direction – than for you to neglect your customers for our sakes."

I could feel the weight of my guardians' incredulous stares atop my head, and yet I could not blame them. It was not like me to be so bold, especially to a man that I barely knew. However, I continued to look the mayor straight in the eye, trying to silently communicate to him my family's – well, mostly _my_ unwillingness to have him around any longer than necessary…

"She has a point," said the tall, gangly youth at M. de Chagny's side, with a sidelong glance at the man. "Why not allow me," he continued, in the bright tone of one who has hit upon a novel idea, as he placed an eloquent hand against his chest, "to show them the way to the cottage?"

I glanced, startled, at the young man. When I had first spoken, it had _not_ been with the design of _taking him in_, as some of my former classmates had termed such behavior in shocked tones of voice. I still felt painfully shy of him, of the smile in his eyes; I looked back at the mayor, silently pleading –

"_No_, Raoul," M. de Chagny said in a slight, stern undertone as he angled his head towards – his friend? His apprentice? His _brother_? "I _need_ you to oversee the store; Madame Firmin is quite counting on you to help her with her groceries today."

He turned back to me with the same smiling, reassuring look on his face that I was beginning to feel he saved for all those "whom he could assist". "I vastly appreciate your concern, Mademoiselle Daaé, but my younger brother is more than capable of taking my place for a time. You may rest your conscience, for none of my customers shall suffer from neglect."

I gave a slight bow, an automatic reflex. A strange torrent of emotions was building within me, and I could not trust myself to speak at present.

I struggled to disentangle each feeling from the others; it was like naming the notes that made up an aria, or the colors of a painting. I felt a strange sort of attraction towards the boy named Raoul: strange, because I had never felt anything like it before, and so I did not know what to do or how to act. There was also frustration: a handsome young man had stared – was _still_ staring at me, and I was angry at him for doing so, yet also secretly pleased…and then I was angry at myself _for_ feeling pleased. I still felt uneasy around the mayor – almost suspicious! – and I had no notion of why. There was no obvious, outward reason; he was all politeness and warmth, ready and eager to assist – though I was not sure how much of that proceeded from experience as a storekeeper or from the feelings of his own heart. My intuition still whispered to be wary of him…

But why?

I was not used to feeling so complicated. (2)

I shook my head slightly, trying to brush off these confusing and potentially dangerous thoughts. With a civil "If you would follow me", the mayor turned away from Raoul and began leading us out of the main square and to our new home.

* * *

I supposed that "a little ways" was a more relative than truthful term. 

Philippe de Chagny led us out of the heart of the city – of which the square was the main chamber – and through the winding streets which he had warned us of. They were, predictably, tall and narrow, lined with more half-timbered buildings that loomed above us: sentinels jealously guarding the pathway to a magnificent castle. I felt dizzy and enclosed, as if we were traversing the inscrutable ways of a legendary labyrinth, and it was with a sharp sense of longing that I remembered the broad, tree-lined avenues of Paris …

With the sudden sense of a stretched leather cord snapping in two, we stepped out of that area which I determined to always think of as "the real city". There certainly was a marked difference between the towering buildings out whose shadow we had passed and the open, pastoral sight which now greeted us. Before us stretched humble cottages – several of which bordered small farms – spaced far and wide in between. The rough cobblestone road changed seamlessly into smooth dirt as we continued to follow the mayor. The path curved more directly north, and so we left behind the sight of whitewashed fishermen's boats and wooden piers that clustered along the banks of the Seine, a sight that I found oddly comforting.

_I thought I smelled the sea upon the air…_

I liked the fact that the people in this area of Rouen did not stare nearly as much as the people in the real city. Several of the residents paused in their work to watch as we passed them by, but then some silent reminder seemed to intrude, and they returned to their various duties.

We were a somewhat subdued group. Conversation was chiefly supplied by M. de Chagny, who spoke above the undercurrent of our steps and the wagon wheels grinding against the ground to tell us of our fellow citizens. Names, relations, dates, and incomes seemed to slide past me in the warm air. I tried to listen, I really did…but I was so tired from our journey, and bewildered by the innumerable similarities and differences between our new home and mine of fourteen years, that I eventually gave up straining to catch the mayor's words. As I trailed my hand along the body of the wagon to steady myself, I daydreamed wistfully of a soft, warm bed and a goose-down pillow to rest my head upon.

Just when it seemed that we would leave Rouen altogether – the approaching hills looked decidedly daunting in our exhausted state – Philippe de Chagny directed us towards a lane that branched off of the main road and veered sharply to the left. With a smooth explanation that he needed to return to the square – his brother probably could not manage the store for much longer – and a wish to not intrude when we first explored the cottage, the man that was our mayor – and landlord, as I later learned with no little dismay, since the property was legally his – finally left us. We trudged down the lane; it curved around the foot of a gentle slope, winding and trailing…

Suddenly, we stopped in front of the Lecroix cottage.

It was a charming, if also a somewhat disheartening, sight. The cottage had two levels, and was made of a smooth, beautiful crème-coloured stone. Glass-paned windows – framed in white and built with beige shutters, most of which were open – peeked out from underneath the eaves of the wooden roof and the tangled branches of ivy that looked as if they had been trimmed back, but only just. A garden of flowers, limited in variety, thrived in its wildness under the ground floor windows – and, in some places, _into_ the windows. The trees that had been placed around the cottage had also grown wild, with innumerable branches reaching hither and yon, and the grass on the lawn threatened to overtake the end of the dirt path entirely.

It was Meg who, squaring her narrow shoulders resolutely, led us inside. I helped my uncle to remove the mare's harness – there was neither barn nor post to tie her to, but judging from the copious amount of vegetation around, she was not likely to wander far – and then followed my family through the cheerfully dirty white door. It was dark inside, and smelled of must and damp wood. In an effort to bring in some light and fresh air, my aunt went around to all the windows and pushed them open – at least, the ones that _would_ open.

I began an inspection of this new home. There was one parlour with peeling and dusty wallpaper, and it felt odd to me how large the room seemed in such a small cottage. However, upon closer inspection of the ground floor, I realized that this was because the other two rooms – the dining room and the kitchen – were smaller in comparison; the kitchen especially gave me the feel of a room that had nearly been forgotten to be created, and so had been tucked away and made almost to disappear.

The stairs creaked and groaned as I traversed them. They were quite narrow, their curve sharp as the blade of a knife. I was almost afraid that the floor of the second level would give way beneath my weight – but after taking a few testing steps with no great incident, I felt safer. _This_ part of the cottage was much more organized; after leaving the staircase, one walked down a short corridor while being faced with four choices of doors to open, two doors on each side. I opened each and peeked curiously inside. There were two small bedrooms, one across from the other, and two considerably smaller wash-rooms, also across from each other.

We would have to share.

"Well, Christine," I heard my uncle say in a light, teasing tone as he approached the top of the stairwell, "I should have guessed that you would have examined this whole house before the rest of us had even a chance to glance at half of it."

I turned to him, chuckling softly, then stopped short at the sound. Though it had only been a few days since disaster had struck, it may as well have been years, and a grim silence had reigned over us all during that time. My laughter, quiet as it had been, rang oddly in my ears, as had my uncle's tone of voice…yet, in this new place, under the spell of this sleepy cottage, sounds which in our strained circumstances should be embarrassing _faux pas_, now felt easy and natural.

Covering my sudden silence, I hastily informed him of my discovery regarding the number of bedrooms and wash-rooms. "I'm sharing with Christine!" I heard Meg announce authoritatively as she and her mother climbed the stairs to meet us. Aunt Giry shot a quelling look at her daughter, and my uncle's lips seemed to twitch upward as he glanced at the ceiling.

"And what do you think of your new home, niece?"

My uncle had meant to sound light in his inquiry, but despite the smile on his lips, I could see the uncertainty and apprehension in his eyes. _Please be happy here_, those eyes said.

_Please be content; it is all I can do._

I let my eyes roam over one of the bedroom doors, briefly pondering my answer. The garden was wild and overgrown; the cottage was small and needed a thorough washing and scrubbing; there would likely be horrors tomorrow morning: birds in the chimney, mice in the cellar...yet I could not ignore the new feeling growing inside me, almost as if I had returned to a familiar place that I had not visited in years. Despite my unusual surroundings, I felt peaceful. True, I had been uneasy around the mayor and his son, but who was to say that things might not be any better between them and me? I could already imagine how the cottage would look after it had been fixed up, how beautiful and charming our future life here; I remembered the rolling green hills, the calming sight of the fishermen's boats on the waters of the Seine…

A calm smile curved my lips.

"I think it very fine, uncle. I believe that I am going to like it here."

* * *

We spent the rest of that August working to make the cottage a livable place. 

Since we had been able to bring along some furniture with us from Paris, we all agreed that furnishing the house was not the top priority. Considering that the roof was in excellent condition for an abandoned building – not to mention that we were still in the throes of a warm, dry season, which also helped to air out some of the must smell – my aunt and uncle thought that, aside from our most immediate necessities, our attention needn't be turned on the problems inside just yet, but on the problems _outside_. After all, it seemed only a matter of time before the many denizens of nature threatened to overtake the cottage entirely.

We spent several days cutting – and in some places, hacking – away the rampant plants: my uncle climbing and twisting in the rowan trees to saw away the extra branches; my aunt and I crouching like old women to vigorously trim the flower bushes and uproot some of the grass; and Meg running from one group to the other, offering to help where she could. It was tough, backbreaking work, yet I found myself looking forward to it. It was much easier to get through each new day when nearly every hour was taken up with hard, absorbing tasks; it was easier to collapse on my makeshift bed each evening and fall instantly asleep from exhaustion, instead of laying awake wondering what the next day would bring, what portents our future life held, what was happening back in Paris…

In the end, it was invariably me who was chosen to accompany my aunt to the real city. We were nearly finished with our work on the outside, but in order to complete the work inside, some trades would have to be made.

After all, there was no stable, and horses were expensive to keep.

Even so, it was with a degree of melancholy fondness that I watched as Aunt Giry bargained with the local horse trader on a price for the middle-aged mare. She had seen us through one of the worst times of our lives, and had hardly so much as nickered in protest against continually sleeping outside, even when we humans had got our own place to sleep in that included four walls and a roof. But it was just as well: we had no use for her, and she would be _much_ happier living with someone who could take care of her properly and give her work.

We then set off for the town square to select and buy our essentials. We were not in need of clothes – our trunks were nearly full of them – but our store of travel-safe food was beginning to dwindle, and we did not have any real beds. However, my aunt and I quickly discovered that, without the use of our recently sold horse-and-cart, such errands could not be completed in one day; indeed, some purchases would even have to be delivered to our new home. That week was taken up with visits to the real city; sometimes I would accompany my uncle, sometimes my aunt – once, I was even sent alone. Meg had once complained of this restriction on her society – "What is the point of moving to a different place if I can't meet new people?" – but the moment that my aunt and I explained to her that the only conversations that we had were with the store clerks, my cousin wrinkled her nose and ran to play outside, and that was the end of that.

During this time, it was inevitable that I and my chosen guardian of the day should enter Philippe de Chagny's general goods store at least once. He seemed to sell anything and everything, and it was very convenient to be sure of finding there whatever items we could not find in other places. He always saw to our business personally – he had even offered to let us buy on partial credit, to be paid off once our finances could be considered ours again – but there were times, when the boy Raoul was also working in the shop, that I watched as his smiling eyes followed mine. Each time, I felt that same flash of irritated pleasure, and wondered what in the world he could possibly want with _me_?

Not long after our cottage was more or less furnished, and my uncle had got work on the docks as a fisherman – going back to the beginning, as he had put it – we were informed by a kindly neighbor that, as growing young women, Meg and I would be expected to attend the city's school when it re-opened for term in mid-September. This neighbor, Amèlie Firmin by name, was confined to a wheelchair due to a strange internal growth at the base of her spine that made any leg movement both impossible and potentially dangerous. She was a kind, simple woman who, despite her condition – or perhaps because of it – was predisposed to be helpful wherever she could. We thanked her for the information and gift of peach preserves, then, after she left, Aunt Giry turned to my cousin and me with questioning eyes. We had no objections.

We would attend school in the autumn, then.

* * *

(1): The _Gros Horloge _(large clock, respectively), which was originally built in the Middle Ages and placed in Rouen, and has been there ever since. To see a good picture of it, go to http // www . flickr . com / photos / lostintokyo / 56276817 / (remove the spaces), or just pay a visit to your friendly neighborhood search engine. 

(2): Quoted directly from Janet Fitch's _White Oleander_.

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_Reviews are love!_


	7. Chapter Six: The Scarlet Scarf

_A/N: I think that it's safe to say that you all should expect an update on this story about once a month (unless the chapter is either extremely short or I have a large amount of time/inspiration on my hands, but let's be realistic here). You'll never need to worry about me not completing this story - some scenes are MUCH too strong to remain unwritten - but it will be rather slow-going, so please bear with me (I feel like I say that a lot). I know I said that Erik is going to show up in the chapter after this, but since I don't really count the interlude(s) - or the prelude either, as a matter of fact - as a real chapter, Erik will be appearing in what ffn counts as chapter nine. But don't worry! Our dark knight WILL come!_

_Thanks to MJ MOD for helping me with my French OCD moment! And more thanks to jtbwriter and Emerald Cloud for being The Only Ones to review the previous chapter, and for being faithful, loving, and supporting reviewers since you both started reading this (I'm hoping that the group of such reviewers will grow larger, hint hint)! Thanks also to silvergenji for betaing this chapter and giving me support! And, while we're at it, I'd like to thank my mom, my siblings, my pet chinchilla (coughdoesn'texistsnort), and the state of California (hardly)..._

_I have a semi-important question for you all, but if you don't review and answer it, I will decide for myself, and some people may or may not be happy: should Erik be simply Monsieur Ribaldi, or Comte Ribaldi? _

* * *

_**Chapter Six:**_

_**The Scarlet Scarf**_

_**-Christine- **_

* * *

"In those days, nothing was there but the sky, the sea, and the golden shore. And on this particular day there was a high wind that blew away Christine's scarf and dropped it into the sea. She reached out for it, with a cry…Then she heard a voice say, 'Don't worry, I'll go and get it for you.'

She saw a boy running as fast as he could...He plunged into the sea fully dressed and brought Christine's scarf back to her. He and the scarf were, of course, sopping wet…but Christine laughed heartily and kissed the boy."

-Gaston Leroux, _The_ _Phantom of the Opera _

* * *

"Class! _Class_! Come to order!"

Hurriedly, I helped Meg to remove her coat from her thin shoulders. As I hung it on one of the few unused coat-pegs, she rushed to the edge of the crowd of students who had gathered in the aisle between wall and desks, unsure of where to sit. I removed my own forest-green wool coat, taking care to hang it so that it shielded my red scarf – which I had chosen to wear on this day of days, when first impressions were vital – from dust and possibly covetous eyes.

Pulling the sleeves of my gown into place, I joined my cousin just behind this group of students who looked either forlorn or frightened, or both. These seemed to be comprised of either young children who had never before set foot in a schoolroom before, and were most likely thinking longingly of their little beds at home; or teenaged boys who had been away for several years working the fields or the river, and did not know whether the worse disgrace was to sit with the children who were younger than them yet their equal in lessons, or to sit with their peers who were irretrievably ahead of them in book-learning.

The schoolteacher, one Mademoiselle Dupont, set us all to rights. Each of us was sent to our own proper place, and if Meg did cast a wistful glance in my direction as she was ushered to a first row seat, at least she did not openly protest.

My ears involuntarily perked up, so to speak, when I was told that I would be sitting at the edge of the fourth row next to a girl named Gisèle André. It seemed to me to be a certain omen of Fate, that on my first day attending the school of this new place – I still had yet to think of Rouen as my _home_ – I should be sent to sit with a girl who bore the same Christian name as _my mother_.

I turned to look at her. She was a young, petite thing, with thin blonde curls and a sadly shabby grey gown that looked as if it had seen much at the hands of its owner – and possibly _previous_ owners. But her warm brown eyes were hopeful as she smiled tentatively at me, so I gave a shy smile back as I sternly told myself to _never_ so much as glance below her neck.

_Perhaps her family simply lacks the substance needed to dress her as she would like. But that is neither here nor there; it is what is inside that _always _counts._

As I neared what was to be my seat, a certain something – or rather, _someone_ – caught my eye and put an excruciating stop to these thoughts as my cheeks flushed in frustration, anxiety, and confusion.

In the row behind Gisèle André and two seats to her right, Raoul de Chagny sat behind his desk, his eyes – unsurprisingly – once again upon me. Though his mouth remained in a serene, straight line, his blue eyes danced and sparkled with mirth, as if to say:

"Well now, Mlle. Daaé – and are you as pleased to see me in a schoolroom as you are in a general goods store?"

I could not help it; I lifted my chin a fraction, and my slanting eyebrows met briefly. He raised both of his eyebrows – whether in mock or real astonishment, I could not tell – as if I had just hurled a completely unnecessary and unprecedented insult at him. I pursed my lips slightly in displeasure; then, as we were beginning to draw the attention of the better portion of the room, I gave him a curt nod of the head.

He gave it back exactly, but his mouth finally split into that grin that I was starting to be accustomed to seeing. I turned abruptly to the front of the room as I placed myself at my desk – a beautiful piece of cedar and wrought iron, but I would not notice until much later – hating the feeling of my blush creeping down my neck. Some women blushed beautifully, as if twin dusky roses bloomed delicately just below their skin, but I was not of this fortunate group. Mine was slow and painful as a burn, and darker than an inebriated Irishman's: a gift from my great-grandfather, as my aunt would wryly say.

The shame of these thoughts only made me blush harder.

It was with difficulty that I tried to concentrate on Mlle. Dupont's next words. They seemed to form the usual speech a teacher would give to returning pupils whom she had not seen since the spring, and to new ones that she had never seen before. I did try to focus, especially when she began to list the rules of her classroom, but I found my attention diverted once more when I heard the door suddenly burst open.

Though most of the children in the front kept their eyes dutifully forward, the rest of the students whispered and craned their necks to see who had dared to arrive _tardy_ on the first day of term. After glancing at Mlle. Dupont – who had not skipped a beat of her lecture – to be sure that she was not looking my way, I too looked furtively back towards the entrance to see who had been so bold – or so defiant.

Of the young woman's beauty there could be but little doubt. She looked to be about my age in bodily form, but she carried herself with such confidence – I was almost inclined to call it arrogance – that she immediately reminded me of the higher-minded _prima donnas_ I was used to seeing around _l'Opèra Populaire_. She certainly dressed like one; her clothes and hat were of exceedingly fine material, and her ermine muff looked as if it was very well taken care of. Her auburn hair was stylishly curled, and her dark eyes held a passionate fire, the glow of which seemed to be reflected further in the strong features of her face.

I immediately felt plain and insignificant, like a woodland finch held in comparison to a grand peacock.

As she began to saunter – there was no other word for it – past the rows of chairs and desks, Mlle. Dupont said sharply, "Tardiness, in any shape or form, will _not _be tolerated. Any student who chooses to be tardy to my class shall be thrashed five times in the presence of his or her fellow classmates."

There were a few ill-concealed male sniggers behind me. The young woman's face abruptly blanched, then flushed just as quickly.

"Oh, but Mlle. Dupont–" she began as she hastened to step forward.

"As it is the first day of term," our schoolteacher spoke effectively over her, "I will make one exception in your case, Carlotta Giudicelli."

She glared at the _prima donna_ with a baleful eye.

"_Do not_ make me regret doing so."

Carlotta hesitated but a moment, then made a faultless curtsy in response.

As Mlle. Dupont resumed her recitation of the rules, Carlotta Giudicelli came to the row where I was seated. Whether it was by purpose or accident I did not know, but as she began to enter the row, her hip collided rather painfully with my too-bony elbow, which jutted out just past the edge of my desk as I had been resting my arms there. I instantly withdrew my arm with a quiet hiss of pain, and then looked up at her. My expectation of an apology was so tangible that I could almost hear it.

What Carlotta did next both surprised and mortified me. She stared at me down her long nose – the nostrils of which could not have been more flared – then gave a disdainful scoff and bustled behind the chairs down to the empty seat at the other end of the row.

I blushed deeply, painfully again. I bit down hard on my lip to distract myself from the angry thoughts that crowded in my mind against her like a bloodthirsty mob. Breathing was difficult, and I worked to take slow, deep breaths to calm myself. However, after I thought I had gained some semblance of peace, I allowed myself a moment's indulgence to my anger.

I had not quite yet learned that to do so was too often a mistake.

"Is Carlotta always so pleasant?" I whispered out of the corner of my mouth to Gisèle as we were looking over our first lesson.

She gave a small whispered giggle, but there was something about the expression in her suddenly dark eyes – dark, perhaps against the shade of pale her face had become? – that reminded me too much of terror.

I forbore to make any more remarks on the subject.

* * *

Instead of rushing out the door like the rest of the students did when Mlle. Dupont announced a mid-morning recess, I briefly rested my head in my hands and waited for the crowd to subside. I had entertained a slight hope that my cousin would wait for me to come out with her – but Meg, being the social butterfly that she is, had already become fast friends with the girls who sat with her, and they were now as eager to get outside as prisoners who had been locked in their cells for decades.

I smiled slightly to myself. Her strong social inclinations could be counted on as an antidote to my own self-importance.

When the last echoes of the stampede had died away, I stood up, smiled politely at my teacher – who had been eyeing me somewhat curiously – and made my way to the coat hooks, most of which were now empty. I slipped on my coat, grabbed my scarf, and walked outside.

It was a brisk, cool day in mid-September. I smiled into the breeze that had begun to pick up, glad that this schoolhouse, considered to have been built upon the outskirts of town, was still far enough away from the real city to have its own open lawn where students could play and enjoy the fresh air.

As the weather was not quite as cold as it had been this morning, I was content to wrap my scarf once around the back of my neck and under my mass of curls – which had been more than usually disobedient this morning, and per their apparent wish had been left to cascade down my back – leaving my throat open to the inviting breeze.

I meandered across the ageing grass, watching the little children run races and the older boys play ball, with more than a few sidelong glances at the group of girls who stood to one side talking and laughing. I was in a quieter, introverted mood, so I was happy to watch in this way for a few minutes…until something in particular caught my eye.

The girl named Gisèle was standing against one of the outside walls for the schoolhouse, her head bowed and shoulders hunched as if she were bracing herself against a storm – which, in a way, she was, as I saw when I began moving closer. Even though she seemed to have the support of a glowering young man who stood next to her – his shirt and trousers as dirty and threadbare as Gisèle's too-short dress – the battle already looked to be half-lost.

And who was the attacker?

None other than Carlotta Giudicelli herself.

I began to walk more purposefully towards them.

"–your _maman_ wouldn't tell you; she probably can't even remember _when_ she made it," I could hear Carlotta say as I approached. It both surprised and annoyed me how unpleasant were the nasal tones of her voice, and her Italian accent seemed to only make it worse.

"L-l-leave off, C-c-c-carlotta!" the boy at Gisèle's side responded as she blushed and lowered her eyes to the ground.

Carlotta's head immediately whipped to face him, like a snake will when it smells easy prey. "Mind your tongue around me, boy! That should be easy for you, as you don't have much of one to begin with."

My palms tingled and trembled, and my breathing became shallow with fury. I was near enough to them now that I thought I could make myself heard. I was about to do so – and very audibly, as I had caught every word that Carlotta had thrown in the pair's faces – when a high, traitorous wind suddenly picked up.

And took my scarf with it.

"Wha–!" Carlotta tried to shriek as my scarf entangled itself around her head and across her eyes; I could only watch, mortified at what had happened. After a moment of confusion, she pulled it off of her, and none too gently – I clenched my jaw. She looked around wildly as she turned…then her snapping eyes fell upon mine.

I blanched. Though I had only been aware of Carlotta's existence for the space of a few hours, I invariably knew what would come next.

"Do you not know," she said in a quiet hissing tone that was more dangerous than if she had screamed, "that it is impolite to listen in on other people's _private_ conversations?"

I wanted to say something brave and witty, something about how it was "impolite" to bully others – especially in private – but it was difficult to think clearly when all I could see was her large hand holding my mother's scarf in tight captivity.

It was a mistake. She followed my fixed gaze, and a strange glint came into her eyes.

"This is a very beautiful scarf," Carlotta continued in that same quiet tone. She cradled it the way a python cradles its helpless prey, and then began to stroke it softly.

The sight of her touching my mother's scarf so intimately strengthened me enough to find my voice at last.

"Please give it back to me."

I winced; my voice sounded high and weak in my ears.

What had been cause for embarrassment on my part seemed just as much a cause for amusement on Carlotta's. The corners of her full lips twitched upward, and I thought I saw the glint of teeth behind it.

"Oh, but Christine, it's so soft! Do let me hold it, just for a while? After all, it was _you_ who interrupted my conversation with my friends, so you should allow me something in return."

The blood began to pound in my ears, and I clenched my fists against the sudden desire to throw them both in her face.

Unbidden, the image of my mother's face flashed before my eyes. She had always taught me to be as kind as I could to everyone I met, no matter how they treated me, and that everyone had both good and bad sides to them: no one could be _completely_ bad. In such a situation as this, she would have been highly disappointed in me if I did not take her teachings and advice to heart. Thus, I decided to try a different tactic.

Even _Carlotta_ must have a better nature to appeal to.

"Carlotta, _please_ give it back. It was my mother's last gift to me!"

The grin grew wider. "Even better! Perhaps next time you will think twice about throwing _your mother's scarf_ at someone!"

The moment her accusation had registered in my mind, I lost control over my increasingly straining temper.

"Bully!" I hissed loud enough for half of the students to hear. I began to stomp towards her, a red haze clouding my vision.

"I _demand_ that you return it to me!"

Carlotta took a step backwards, all trace of sadistic amusement gone.

"I don't think so, _mademoiselle_," she whispered back, hurling the last word as if it were an insult. "I might have been more inclined to _eventually_ return it to you, had you continued to behave kindly towards me. But I think you'll find that I don't respond very well to name-calling and _orders_."

I stared at her in trepidation, my anger momentarily kept at bay. A slightly sick feeling uncurled in my stomach as I wondered what she had meant. I inwardly cursed my temper for causing me to speak so soon and so hotly, and I watched…

Carlotta gave a small, dangerous smile, her hand lingering longest upon the one hanging thread which marked the place where my scarf could be most easily unraveled –

"Carlotta Giudicelli, you _will_ return that scarf to its rightful owner!"

Carlotta and I both turned, shocked, to see who had interrupted our tense exchange.

Raoul de Chagny was walking towards us: taking large, powerful strides, lightning bolts striking out of his blazing blue eyes. Much as I desired aid in this increasingly frustrating and impossible situation, I felt myself blush – again! – in his presence, ashamed: both of myself and of him.

The anger completely disappeared from Carlotta's face and frame, although the tension did not.

"Of course, Raoul!" she cried in a nearly convincing show of good spirits and humour, her bold black eyelashes fluttering _much _more than they had a few seconds ago.

"In fact, I was just about to return it to Mlle. Daaé," she continued as she stepped towards me and began to wrap it awkwardly around my neck. I stared directly at her, hoping to call forth some symptom of remorse – or, at the very least, embarrassment – but none appeared.

"There," she said in a sad attempt to sound motherly as she finished – I impatiently uncovered the one ear and corresponding cheek that had been wrapped in as well. She turned to smile most alluringly up at the mayor's brother. He, however, looked at her steadily and unblinking: open disapproval showed in their sky-clear depths. She flushed – a member of the more fortunate group, I noticed – and walked quickly away.

I pulled off my scarf, folded it, and placed it into one of my coat's larger pockets, suddenly thinking that it was high time the poor thing be washed.

Raoul de Chagny turned to me after staring none too angrily at Carlotta's retreating back. An amicable smile curved his smooth lips, but his eyes still held remnants of their former indignation. I smiled hesitantly back, though I was still somewhat ashamed of having to be rescued by him.

"_Merci_, monsieur, for rescuing my scarf," I said demurely as I bowed my head. "My mother would thank you as well, I'm sure, if she could," I added in an undertone to myself.

He cocked his head slightly, but if he had indeed heard my last words, he said nothing to indicate so.

"You are a newcomer, so I would not expect you to understand the many different temperaments of Rouen's more…_prominent_ citizens." With a somewhat derisive tone, he added as an explanation: "_La Carlotta_ is one of those who – well, let us just say that she needs to be reminded of her own insignificance every now and then. As I am the _mayor's younger brother_ –" his smile became more wry "– I am often the only person fit to do so."

In happier circumstances, the humor of such statements would not have been lost on me as it was in that moment. My temper still simmered under the surface, and my eyes and lips tightened marginally as I said, lowly, "She _is_ a bully, then."

The expression on his face became more approving. "Yes, but few have been brave enough to call her such, and only _one_ has escaped unscathed."

I smiled self-effacingly, not quite meeting his gaze. "So far."

He continued to smile down at me for a moment longer, then suddenly broke out in an exclamation. "Oh, but pardon me!"

I looked at him questioningly.

"I have been remiss in my manners," he continued; "my brother would have had my hide were he here now. Allow me to introduce myself."

He swept a grand bow, one that ill concealed the fact that his expressive eyes were once again dancing with mirth. "I am Raoul de Chagny, _à_ _votre service_."

I quirked one eyebrow.

_All right, if that is how he wants to do this. I too will pretend that I do not already know his name_.

I curtsied and extended my hand for him to take.

"And I am Christine Daaé."

He raised my hand to his lips, his eyes lingering on mine in a way that pleased me, for all that it made me uncomfortable as well.

"_Enchanté_, Mademoiselle Daaé."

I smiled politely back, trying hard not to betray the fact that the back of my hand tingled lightly where his lips had brushed against it. He gave another smile as he straightened, and then said, "And now that we have been _properly_ introduced, I would like to present to you the two people whom you so bravely rescued from the mouth of the dragon."

As I followed Raoul towards my two classmates who had remained against the wall – they had been paralyzed by the scene between Carlotta and me, too shocked to move or interfere – I sent him a disapproving look, tingling and shyness be forgotten. His mischievous grin, however, persisted.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, this is Gisèle André –" she and I curtsied to each other, "– and her younger brother, Michel André. Gisèle, Michel, you see before you your rescuer, Christine Daaé."

"B-b-bonjour," Michel said to me as we bowed to each other, his eyes daring me to poke fun at him. I was not sure whether his stutter originated from anxiety or some sort of speech impairment…but either way it did not matter. It was only his mind, his personality, his heart that mattered, and I was determined to take everything else as a matter of course. As Raoul had said, I was the newcomer, and thus could not be petty in my choice of society.

"You really were very brave to come to our aid," Gisèle said in a sweetly emphatic and yet honest way that went straight to my heart. "I saw you," she added quickly, "before the wind picked up and…well…"

I looked down, ashamed that I had not spoken more – _at all!_ – in Gisèle's and Michel's defense. "I was not very brave once it came to _speaking_ to her. I didn't say even a fraction of what I had planned to, were it not for – well, for my scarf."

"No," she granted in a thoughtful tone. "But you would have."

I looked back up at her, suddenly grateful for the faith she had mysteriously decided to place in me, when I had less of such for myself.

She laughed merrily at the expression on my face, then gathered my two hands in hers.

"I like you already! I sincerely hope we shall be the best of friends."

I smiled back at her, then let my gaze roam over her, Michel's, and Raoul's faces as I replied: "Yes; I do hope we shall all be the best of friends."

* * *

_You review, I update. Got it?_


	8. Interlude I

_**

* * *

**_

Interlude I

* * *

"_All my father used to say at this point was, 'What with one thing and another, three years passed'..._

_Would you believe that in the original Morgenstern this is the longest single chapter in the book?_

_...from a narrative point of view, in 105 pages _nothing happens_. Except this: 'What with one thing and another, three years passed.'"_

- William Goldman, _The_ _Princess Bride

* * *

_

The sound of pages flipping.

"What with one thing and another, three years passed. 'Chapter Seve–'"

"_Arrêtez, arrêtez_! Hold a minute! Are you _really_ just going to gloss over three whole years like that, after everything that happened to them?"

"Well – why not?"

A small fist banged against a chair's arm.

"What about Gisèle and Michel? Did Christine become friends with them? What was going on with Carlotta? Did Jules ever get caught by the police? Why is Christine so suspicious of the mayor? What about the –"

"One at a time, one at a time!"

A remorseful, yet anticipating, silence.

"Yes, Christine _did _become good friends with the André children. She soon discovered that Michel had indeed been born with a speech impediment – as she had half-suspected – that caused him to stutter on the making of certain consonants. She also later found that, because M. André was more often _out_ of work than _in_, her new friends' family was very poor, almost as poor as when Christine and her family had first entered Rouen. Yet, despite the fact that most of Rouen's citizens had thought these reasons to ridicule and look down upon the Andrés, these endeared the family even more to Christine – and eventually to Meg as well – and she, Gisèle, Michel, and Raoul did become 'the best of friends'.

"There is nothing 'going on' with Carlotta. She was simply one of those unfortunate human beings who are too caught up in their own selfishness to see – or care – how unhappy they are, or how unhappy they cause others to feel. She _did_ learn to put a curb on her innate nastiness as she grew older, as it was not becoming in a young woman, especially one who had a talent for and wished to pursue a career in singing, as Christine later found out with _much_ dismay. But, even though she was outwardly polite to everyone, there was still a cruel edge to the way she spoke to those she believed were beneath her – Christine Daaé and her poorer friends being the chief among these.

"No, the Girys were never 'caught'. When Mme. Giry had first spoken with M. de Chagny the day they all had arrived in Rouen, she gave him an abbreviated account of their misfortune and asked that they be kept safe from any unfriendly persons seeking them out, to which he readily agreed. It proved invaluable; several investigators arrived in that first year asking for Jules Giry, and – despite their eminence in the legal world – were each turned away with the same lie, until they stopped coming altogether.

"Despite being thrown together more often than usual because of his landlord-ship over her family and her close friendship with his younger brother, Christine did not discover in those three years why she felt so suspicious of Philippe de Chagny. She never felt like she quite knew _him_; despite his outward civility, he was something of a quiet man who preferred to keep his personal affairs and thoughts private. She respected this – everyone did; he was, after all, the mayor – but she still could not reconcile her uneasy emotions either. She had to learn to push them aside, as it were, and despite her feelings, she began to genuinely enjoy his company.

"Besides all this, those three years passed in rather predictable peace and quiet. The Girys learnt to be content with their simple yet relatively successful life in Rouen, Christine found a place for herself where she had expected to find none, and they all grew a little older and a little wiser as they adapted to their new lives. Do you have any more questions, or may I continue?"

A speculative look.

"Christine isn't going to marry _Raoul_, is she?"

Merry laughter.

"Now you _know_ that I can't tell you about what will or won't happen in the story! We have to read it in order to find out!"

"This isn't a lovey-dovey book, is it?"

A short silence as words were weighed.

"It _is_ a book about love, but it's not as you put it: 'a lovey-dovey book'. Now, shall I continue, or would you rather that I stopped?"

"No, no; keep reading! I want to know what happens next!"

* * *


	9. Chapter Seven: Some Enchanted Evening

_A/N: I shudder to think of the amount of time you all have had to wait for me to update. A thousand apologies. I promise that love will never inhibit me from writing again - though that is not likely to ever happen again anyway, for I do not plan on going through that many emotional ups and downs for a LONG time. -bittersweet smile-_

_On a happier note, here is the chapter you all have been waiting for, and that I have been slaving over for what feels like forever! I really hope that you enjoy it; a lot of work and effort was put into it. Thanks to all my lovely reviewers; were it not for you all, this story would not exist - or, it would not have come this far. I would also be remiss if I did not credit Ashley MacIsaac for his lovely rendition of the song "Sleepy Maggie", which inspired one of the key scenes in this chapter, and my little sister for introducing me to the song. Also, if I could thank all the people that maintain and contribute to Wikipedia, I would. This is a shout-out to you all for creating what has become my main source for what research I do that keeps this story together and saves me from looking like an idiot. You people are awesome!_

_The songs used in here are NOT mine. "Let Me In" is property of Kurt Bestor, and the Jewel Song was written by Gounod. While we're at it, Phantom of the Opera is not mine - otherwise it would have turned out much differently - neither is Rigoletto - same - nor is North and South (quoted below), though I highly recommend reading it._

_Now, on with the show!_

* * *

_**Chapter Seven:**_

_**Some Enchanted Evening**_

_**-Christine/An Anonymous Stranger-**_

* * *

"…a young lady came forward with frank dignity, – a young lady of a different type to most of those he was in the habit of seeing...He did not understand who she was, as he caught the simple, straight, unabashed look, which showed that his being there was of no concern to the beautiful countenance...

…he looked on her with an admiration he could not repress…"

- Elizabeth Gaskell, _North and South_

* * *

_**Christine**_

_June 21, 1881_

_My dear Diary,_

_I never knew until today that it was possible to be as excited as I am about tonight. There's no obvious reason why I should be; this will be the third year that my family and I have attended the Summer Solstice festival. Perhaps it is because I am singing in the contest…but no, that's not it, though I certainly feel nervous about singing papa's song in front of everyone._

_No, I simply have this amazing, indescribable, and completely unreasonable feeling: like something both significant and exciting is going to happen at the festival tonight._

_Oh, this will not do! I only came out of doors to_ escape _such jittery feelings – goodness knows I was no good with them while_ inside _– not to dwell on them!_

_I will instead write about tonight's proceedings. It is to be a masquerade, as usual. Every citizen of Rouen, from the humblest stableboy to Philippe de Chagny himself will be dressed in their finest regalia, their identities only to be guessed at until the unmasking at midnight. At least, that is the idea; for some of us – my family, Gisèle, Michel, and I, to be exact – it was next to impossible to keep the nature of our disguises a secret. Gisèle's and Michel's costumes especially took much time and effort, as it was difficult to find something that they would like to wear and also lay within their means – but, after some bargaining, raw materials, and help with the sewing from Aunt Giry and Mme. André, we were able to fashion a set of costumes that I would defy even Carlotta to find fault with. Gisèle is to go as an angel – which many feel is very appropriate –and Michel will be dressed as Moses. Meg and my aunt, being the practical-minded creatures that they are, will be dressed as ballerinas, and my uncle will go as Napoleon Bonaparte._

_It is rather a daring move for him; more than a few still remember the rigorous authority with which Napoleon ruled, and the deep divisions that he caused to exist throughout Europe. However, when my uncle first expressed his doubts on the matter, I assured him that his costume was so nondescript in comparison to the old Emperor's ostentatious clothing, that most would likely think him a general. He laughed, and that was the end of that._

_It took me a long time to think of a costume that I would like to wear – it is hard for me to imagine dressing as something other than myself for anything besides the stage – but at last, my choice became clear: Gilda, from_ Rigoletto. _However, when I informed my aunt of my idea, she was sad to say that, even if she could remember the costume design, she did not think that such a dress was quite within our means, improved as those were. She hastened to inform me, though, that she was certain she could help me with a simpler version of Marguerite's costume, and…well,_ Faust is _one of my favourite operas._

_And so, I shall be attending tonight's masquerade in the guise of Marguerite._

_As for Raoul, I have absolutely no idea as to what costume he shall be wearing. He's been oddly secretive about the whole thing, despite my roundabout efforts to discover the truth. Why must men be so frustrating sometimes?_

_My goodness, how did I digress so far?_

_Well, the whole city will be ablaze with merry-making and revelry tonight. There will be games, an inestimable amount of food – all prepared and donated by the many wives and daughters of Rouen, and no two dishes alike – and dancing all night. There will be a contest as well, and anyone who wishes to showcase a talent of theirs may enter. I have stood by and watched these past two years, but this year I am entering. I do not know if I will necessarily_ win _– Carlotta has won every year that she has entered, to the surprise of no one – but I would still like to sing for everyone. I certainly have not had as much training as Carlotta has, so I know that my voice is not as strong as hers – but neither is mine_ horrendous.

_As it is, my friends and I plan on enjoying ourselves as much as possible. And, since I have just seen that the sun is a little lower in the sky than I would like – for I would still like to enjoy this walk instead of rushing on home – I must wait until tomorrow to write again, when I shall write a full and detailed account of tonight's proceedings._

_I remain, in all affection and excitement,_

_Christine Daaé_

* * *

I blew softly on the paper, drying the black, curving lines that formed my penmanship. After I had closed my diary – I noted with a slightly frazzled look that only a few pages were still blank – I dried my ink pen by wiping it firmly against the grass next to where I sat on the hilly ground. Capping the small inkbottle that I had brought with me – _tightly_; I had heretofore avoided stains made by leaking inkbottles, but one could never be too careful – I pushed it into one of the hidden pockets in my walking gown, gathered my diary and pen into one hand, and tenderly stretched my slightly cramped legs as I stood.

I had come outside with the intention of escaping the close quarters of the cottage. Much as I had come to love the place, it had been too enclosed for my high level of energy. Even Aunt Giry had been eager to have me out and away from her, as my hyperactivity had made her a little more nervous than she thought she could stand.

I had brought my diary out with me, as it had been nearly a week since I had last written in its pages; I thought too that taking some time to write in it would calm my high spirits.

It had done the trick, to some degree; sitting under the wide sky – today a fabulously clear robin's egg blue in colour – on a grassy hillside that afforded what was, in my opinion, the grandest view of the valley and the Seine had helped to restore me to a temporary state of serenity: temporary, as I knew that my high spirits would be easily restored at the start of tonight's fête.

The place was a favourite haunt of mine. Gisèle, Michel, Raoul, and I had often come to this area when we were younger to talk – or, as was more like the case, play – and enjoy each other's company. Even after Raoul had been packed off by his brother and sent to university, the André siblings and I still liked to come here, though we felt the loss of our playmate while his school was in session.

We all spent less time together now that any of us would like. Raoul could only be away from the University of Paris during the summer and winter holidays, and then he was forced to spend almost all of his time in the shop with his brother. Gisèle and I had finished with our general education at the school of Rouen; and as we were female and at prime marrying age, we were expected to either stay at home and practice the art of housekeeping, or mingle in our respective circles of society in the hopes of "catching" a husband. My friend and I sometimes kept up an appearance of fulfilling these expectations, but we were still able to take time every now and then to meet either out here or at the city library: another favourite haunt.

Michel, being about a year younger than Gisèle and I, had one year still before he had completed his general education, and so – aside from holidays – his mornings and afternoons were spent in the schoolhouse, with only Meg for friendly company. Thankfully, my young cousin had taken a liking to Michel; who would not? He was not disposed to be very trusting, for he had every reason to – but once that trust was earned, one saw that he was in possession of a kind heart, a quick understanding, and deeper feeling than one usually met with in a member of his age and sex.

I smiled in half melancholy at the wide scene below me as I began to meander down the hillside.

Why did growing up seem to make things so much more complicated?

Well, complicated or not, things had certainly changed since our first arrival in Rouen.

My uncle had risen somewhat in prominence as regards to the fishing industry. He was now a business partner with a relatively well-off man who arranged most of the catching and selling. Actually, my uncle was more of a business _apprentice_ – which was what I believed, since M. Delarouche seemed to treat him as such, despite my uncle's previous experience in Paris – but since the pay was just enough that my aunt and I were able to leave off work at an out-of-the-way seamstress's shop in the real city, we could hardly complain.

Though she would have been the last one to admit it, my aunt missed teaching ballet at the opera house. After she and I had left our work, she had moped about the cottage – well, as much as Annette Giry _can_ mope – unsure of what to do with herself, for she had never been much of a homemaker. It simply took one hint – guileless in appearance only – from my uncle that, in the real city, a warehouse of medium size had recently been vacated, and within a week my aunt had begun to teach dancing lessons there. She did not strictly ballet as she privately wished – after all, not every citizen of Rouen shared her same tastes and interests – but she was happy doing what she both did and loved best, and that was really all that mattered.

Meg had been ecstatic when her mother had announced to all of us that she had resumed her teaching. My little cousin faithfully attended each ballet lesson – or at least, those that she had had enough experience to qualify for; it was after all what she had missed most about our previous life in Paris. I also had attended lessons – more often than not with one of my friends in tow – but as I grew older, I went less and less. I have always enjoyed dancing, and I always will, but unlike most of the females in my family, it was not something that I lived for.

It was one of the small things that I had learned to let go of.

I smiled again, this time in rueful amusement. Yes, I had certainly learned to let some things go.

It had started the day I realized that the passing fancy I had felt for Raoul was simply that: a passing fancy. I had nourished this non-love for my best friend for several months after I had first officially met him. I had idolized Raoul: everything he did and said seemed to be so perfect. But one day, as I was reminiscing over the most recent conversation that we had shared, it had suddenly occurred to me that what I had been feeling could not be love. After a period of thorough reflection, I was sure that I had discovered why.

Love does not inhibit; it can only enhance. If I had truly been in love, then I should not have been as distracted as I had been. I should have been able to focus all the more on my daily tasks – for I would have had all the more reason to – instead of being distracted and obsessing over every detail and word when, at the end of the day, most of it did not matter. Too, it was all out of balance; I was so focused upon his good qualities that I would not allow myself to see his flaws, and so I could not see him as he deserved to be seen: as a human being.

Love is a driving force that adds a new vibrancy to all aspects of life, not simply one. True love, one that has been destined, can only bring about good. If there is any ill effect, then either something must be amended quickly, or it is not meant to be.

After this life-changing epiphany, my feelings for Raoul had dwindled – no, transformed. It was not sudden, not in the way a poor caterpillar will burst from its cocoon as a magnificent butterfly, but slow and sure. My feelings deepened as well – in a way that would have been impossible had I pursued my silly infatuation – into a mutual love and respect that even the most deeply connected siblings are lucky to feel.

We should have been born brother and sister.

As it was, I felt a comforting kinship with all of my friends in Rouen – though Raoul, Gisèle and Michel were certainly the closest. Though unaware, they helped to subtly alleviate the heartache and loss that I had never allowed myself to think of, yet could never forget. I had never informed anyone of what had happened, yet their love in and of itself was a healing balm, especially when compared to my – our – relative isolation in Paris. I could now think of my parents' names, remember their beloved faces, without recoiling in pain. I could watch parents play with their children without being overwhelmed with sorrow. I could listen to my friends speak of their parents without being lost in a whirlwind of grief.

_Gisèle._

_Esbjörne._

_Maman._

_Papa._

It may have been a small ration of peace, but it was certainly preferable to my previous state.

Perhaps it was no small coincidence that I should become friends with someone who bore my mother's name at a time when I was most lonely.

I closed my eyes, savoring the feel of the cool breeze kissing my upturned face and whisking through my curls: unruly as ever. I stole a glance underneath my eyelids at my surroundings. A sudden need to relieve my mind of its heavy thoughts overpowered me, but it was better that no one be around to witness the manifestation of my sudden whim.

There was no one about. I spread my arms out, as wide as an eagle's wings; despite a little more time spent out in the sun than society deemed proper, they still glowed pale in the bright light. After taking a deep breath, I dashed down the rest of the hill, speeding towards the bottom until I felt that I would take off and fly the moment I reached it. The sun shone at a diagonal slant to my eyes, and I felt full of its blinding light, sure that it must be reflected a dozen times around me. The wind roared through me, deafening me, whipping my skirts about my legs and streaming my hair behind me like a holy banner. I laughed and gasped by turns.

A creature of wind and light.

* * *

I fairly skipped along my way home, brushing against the verdant grass and ageing wildflowers. My little adventure down the hill had shortened the time I needed to reach home, not to mention that it had revived my spirits considerably.

Seized with a sudden impulse, I delineated from my path to a route well known.

Across an old dam and the slope of another hill, there exists a large yet sadly abandoned mansion. Neglect has caused it to continually fall by degrees into a state of ruin. It is for this reason that Philippe de Chagny has held onto the place for so long, for there is no one who is both rich _and_ interested enough to buy it.

Though there of course has been no activity to prove such fanciful stories, the children still take a morbid delight in spreading dark rumours about the place. Not a month goes by without some new tale being told of moaning ghosts shaking the sashes while clamoring to be free, or the yellow eyes of bloodthirsty werewolves glinting through the overgrown trees on the grounds. Hardly anyone truly believed these tall tales, but the property had acquired an almost foreboding aura of mystery all the same.

It was called Silaton Place.

Despite its forbidden nature, my friends and I were not strangers to the area. Though we never went after sunset, nor approached any further than the rusty iron gates that fronted the house, Meg and her playmates could never be prevailed upon to accompany us very far. Raoul, Gisèle, Michel, and I would sit upon the grass just next to the lane, still chuckling good-naturedly at the faintheartedness of the younger girls.

If we were feeling particularly daring, we would at least _attempt_ to climb the trees just outside the iron fence – Gisèle and I making doubly sure that no one else was about to see our unladylike behaviour – and try to peer into the house. We formed our own game: each of us would try to come up with the best explanation of the place's dark history.

Raoul and Michel were sure that the house had been a secret hideout for outlaws or pirates when they had still held sway over the Seine and beyond; and that the house's grand appearance was the result of their pride as they stole more and more, waiting for the king from their legends to return someday.

Gisèle had spun for us a dark tale of treachery and deceit, of fortune and family honour, of jealousy and passion, with two star-crossed lovers fated to never understand each other at the center of it all. Despite the tragedy, I would smile to myself as she held us spell-bound with her words, but I could not blame her. The house certainly did look a promising candidate for Wuthering Heights.

I was never as good a storyteller as the rest of them; my imagination was more of the kind that was stimulated by that of others, as opposed to what it could create of its own volition. Silaton Place never filled me with the feelings of great excitement or terror that seemed to make everyone else so eloquent – though perhaps this was because I only set eyes on it during the afternoon.

Instead, it made me think of an enchanted place, one put to sleep at the behest of a powerful faery. It was not dead, simply asleep…and yet, that was a sort of death too, for it could not awaken and save itself, and so it was decaying and dying by degrees. Had Sleeping Beauty not been a princess, but the daughter of a semi-wealthy vicomte in the seventeenth century, Silaton Place could easily have been her castle.

But then, I have never really cared for Sleeping Beauty.

I frowned slightly as a small current of water lapped up just over the top of the dam, wetting my boots along with almost an inch of the hem of my walking-gown.

_Speaking of things decaying and dying…_

The quickest way to get to Silaton Place from almost any point in Rouen is to follow the road that leads the way to our home. When it turns towards the cottage, one must leave the path and follow the Seine in a northwards direction, cross the dam, and then follow the foot of the slope to Silaton Place, where it stands grandly between two hills.

However, quickest does not always mean _safest_.

The dam had been built many years ago to keep a rogue tributary of the Seine in check, (1) when some farmers had still made their living this far north. However, as that area had lain abandoned for some time now, so the dam had also been abandoned as far as upkeep and maintenance.

It had probably been a sturdy structure in its day – though not many people could agree on what day that was. But now, one could see the ominous cracks that were starting to form along its sides, and the wild vegetation was growing daringly close to its edges.

I held my skirts closer to my legs and walked briskly across the remaining distance, taking care to remain within the center of the dam and away from the unsteady sides. There was a safer, albeit longer, way: instead of turning left to reach our cottage, one could follow the road to the right, where it curved painstakingly around the large hill and _then_ led the way to Silaton Place.

But where would be the fun in that?

* * *

I walked up slowly to the gates, standing just on the left side of the road that led up to the house. The gates themselves had been left open, which was not uncommon. Jean and his fellows had a nasty habit of testing a younger child's bravado by goading him or her into meeting them at Silaton Place in the dead of night. If they _did_ arrive, they were to prove their courage – I was sorely tempted to call it foolishness – by walking unaccompanied as close to the house as they dared.

Of course, no one could be bothered to erase any trace of their presence there.

However, instead of closing the cumbersome gates, as I was generally wont to do, I allowed myself to look upon Silaton Place without the elegantly cold barrier of iron to hold me back.

My gaze roamed over the wild grass and flowers, the gnarled and twisted trees, the colourless stone, the cracked and boarded windows, the grand and imposing architecture that made up the mansion itself. For all of its years of abandonment and neglect, the place still had an inner beauty that shone through: a proverbial diamond in the rough. I was once again forcibly reminded of the tale of Sleeping Beauty. Like her, Silaton Place simply needed someone to come and awaken it.

All that it needed was a little love and care…

So lost was I in my musings that I almost did not hear the hoofbeats that were approaching behind me.

I whirled around, startled, and then retreated to a safe point just off of the overgrown path. A large black coach was steadily advancing, drawn by two pairs of elegant white thoroughbreds who seemed completely unaffected by their exertion.

_Why is there a carriage here? This road only leads one way…_

I raised my eyes to look at the driver. Though he wore clothing that was considered standard for our day, he would certainly have not looked out of place in a tunic and robe, perhaps even a turban – for he had the cinnamon skin and high features of the noble races of the East. His jet-black hair glinted brightly in the afternoon sun, and his startlingly light green eyes followed mine in open curiosity as the horses began to pass by me in a clipping trot. It did not look right; he should have been out in the deserts of Arabia or Persia, fighting against a rogue band of outlaws or leading a pilgrimage to Mecca, instead of driving that black leviathan towards a deserted mansion in this green, wet country.

My gaze slipped from his face to the interior of the carriage, when it became visible. At first, I believed it to be empty; I could see nothing inside, save that the curtain that hung on the opposite window had been drawn, and all was dark.

But then, a face swam out of the gloom.

It was the profile of a coldly handsome man. His skin was very pale, almost as if he had never been out of doors; it formed a stark, although not unbecoming, contrast to his thick dark hair, which blended seamlessly into the shadows. One long, large hand – encased in rich black leather – rested regally along the window's edge.

All of these observations were made in the fraction of a moment, for my curious gaze was almost immediately arrested by his. He did not turn his face to meet mine, but his one visible eye focused solely on me, the other side of his visage still disguised by shadow. His look was unnaturally piercing, as if he could know every colour of my soul, discover the secret story of my life, simply by staring at me.

I noticed that his eyes were a frosty ice-blue.

There was a strange, unsettling stirring within my heart, a desire to know more of this stranger…an attraction towards him. I could not tear my eyes away. Instead of being cowed or offended by his frank stare, I lifted my chin fractionally and stared right back at him: meeting him head-on.

_Who are you?_

I thought I glimpsed one dark, slanting eyebrow raising in haughty surprise, but I continued to watch him as the coach passed me by. It was with a tinge of chagrin that I realized that he was the reason the gates had been left open, for the horses pulled the carriage straight through them and did not stop until they had reached the front steps of the house.

Questions immediately exploded in my mind like Chinese fireworks. Who exactly were these men? From where did they come? What was their purpose here? Surely they did not mean to live in Silaton Place! But then, why else was he – _they_ – what other reason could there be?

I shook my head firmly to dislodge these meddlesome questions. I suppose that it was natural to feel curiosity, especially in a situation such as this. One could not help it – _I_ could not help it.

But it _really_ was none of my business.

And evening was soon approaching.

I turned myself around and began to walk back the way that I had come. I tried to tread gracefully, despite an uncustomary awkwardness in my limbs, the reason for which I dared not think of. My overly sensitive ears caught the final sounds of the carriage halting, then that of the foreign driver alighting from his position and assisting his passenger to do the same.

An uncanny prickling feeling suddenly broke out along my scalp, causing a deep flush to spread down my neck. I could easily imagine a piercing gaze focused on my retreating figure, a gaze that originated from two unearthly blue eyes.

I kept my face forward, and did not look back.

* * *

"Christine!"

Turning from my conversation with Meg, I glanced up to see who had called my name.

It was of course unnecessary, for I would recognize that voice almost anywhere.

"Raoul!" I cried in delight, running forward to meet my best friend.

He caught me in a friendly embrace, laughing at my childlike candor. I had not seen him since he had come to spend the Christmas holidays in Rouen, and even then he had only visited twice, so I was terribly eager to see him again.

Despite two years of attendance, university had not served to change him much. His thin, lanky frame had acquired a fine musculature since adolescence, and sport had helped to keep him from wasting away over his studies. Perhaps his skin had paled somewhat from being constantly held hostage by his professors – his words, not mine – but his hair, a little longer than usual, still shone its same colour in the light, and his clear blue eyes still reflected their same expression of mischief and amusement.

When he had first left, he had promised to write to me. I did not expect that he would keep that promise, but so he had, and for two years. This of course had raised idle gossip among our fellow citizens – just about anything will – to the point that my guardians had requested a private interview with me to ask whether there existed some sort of understanding between Raoul and I. But I had explained to them, and to anyone else who had enough courage to ask me, that no feelings existed between us beyond that of a brother and sister. And, if proper society allowed that true siblings could write to each other without fear of remonstrance, then why should two good friends who felt just as much not do the same?

It served to amuse him when next I wrote, though he was sorry for the trouble and vexation that I had been put through. At least no one brought up the subject again – except for Carlotta, but I had learned to ignore her verbal attacks where Raoul was concerned.

"_Bonsoir, ma chère amie_," he said as we broke apart. I smiled up at him, comforted by the sight of his customary roguish grin.

"And a good evening to you, Raoul! Are you prepared for all the wondrous glories of tonight's revelries?"

He tapped the tip of my nose with one long finger. "More than you, for I see that you have not yet put on your mask!"

I stepped back, making to tie my own simply adorned white mask behind my head, but stopped when I saw Raoul's costume. It was a nondescript black trimmed with a dark wine red, and had more of a style reminiscent of the High Renaissance. Beyond that, however, it was impossible to tell what exactly it was.

"But what are you dressed as?" I blurted out in curiosity.

"Pardon me, for I thought that it must be obvious: Dr. Faust, to go along with your Marguerite."

I raised my eyebrows at him, feeling my face become a degree paler. Perhaps I was feeling rather paranoid, but I did not quite like the way that he had said, "to go along with your Marguerite". The silence became laced with discomfiture as he waited for my reply. However, a suspicion was forming within my mind, and I turned to face my aunt, who had come up behind us along with my uncle and cousin.

"Did you plan this?" I asked her, moving again to tie my mask behind my head. Raoul took the white ribbons within his bare hands in order to assist me, and I worked not to withdraw my own too quickly.

"No, my dear," my aunt replied, smiling with puzzled amusement. "I assure you I had no knowledge of this scheme."

"The fault is mine," Raoul said behind me. I turned to face him. "I tricked Michel into revealing to me what your costume was so that we might match."

I could not think of how to reply. I was unsure of whether to be vexed or amused at his enthusiasm, and it embarrassed me to be caught in this situation with my best friend.

"But," he continued in a low, intimate tone, "may I say that tonight, you look truly magnificent."

This was getting out of hand.

"Thank you, but I'm afraid I cannot return the compliment: not honestly, at any rate," I said, forcing a laugh. "Your costume does not suit you at all! What on earth could have possessed _you_ to dress as the evil Dr. Faust, of all people?"

He laughed, breaking the tension. "Well, it was a very strange occurrence. On a dark and stormy night, Méphistophélès (2) came to me in a dream–"

I swatted his arm playfully, interrupting his fanciful yarn. "Fie, sir! You dare to poke fun at a lady, when her question was meant in earnest? For shame! What would your brother think?"

"What my brother doesn't know will not hurt him," Raoul answered in a conspiratorial tone, and then joined me when I burst out laughing. Accepting his proffered arm, we walked with my family down the dirt road that led the way to the real city, talking and laughing as we went.

Gisèle and Michel met us just within the city's limits, and after some small conversation, my guardians granted me permission to spend the evening with my best friends. Meg quickly spotted her own and took off to play with them with only a hasty by-your-leave. Shaking their heads and chuckling over their daughter's independent spirit, my aunt and uncle walked off hand in hand to form their own memories of tonight's proceedings.

The transformation that the city underwent each Summer Solstice never ceased to amaze me. Even after attending the annual festival twice before, I still could not help but gaze in awe at the beautiful sights that filled Rouen. In Paris, no matter how grand a scale the celebration, there was always some part of the city that had been shut out, some suburb left to decay in its squalor. But here, every citizen was included, every street lined with decorations, tables of food and drink, stalls of strange and exotic wares that were only sold once a year.

My friends chuckled good-naturedly as I stared in open admiration at the delicate paper lanterns that swung along each street to light our way, the new items – everything from jade necklaces to silver mirrors to pennywhistles, and more – being sold this year, and the costumes of the people themselves: beautiful, mystical, and some downright grotesque. They _would_ laugh; they had lived here all their lives. But I didn't care. I was determined to enjoy myself tonight.

* * *

_Masquerade!  
__Every face a different shade,  
__Masquerade!  
__Hide your face so the world will never find you!_

* * *

_BOOM!_

We ran the rest of the way towards the fireworks tent, laughing in the exhilaration. Raoul had wanted to meet his brother at least once before they both disappeared completely into the evening's festivities, and when he had mentioned that Philippe de Chagny would most likely be helping to set up the fireworks that someone had donated, the rest of us were suddenly much more eager to see Raoul's brother.

"Good evening, brother!" Raoul called as we burst through the flap that was the tent's door, still laughing and panting.

Philippe de Chagny raised an eyebrow, most likely at our unconventional mode of entry, but otherwise did not call attention to our behaviour. "Good evening, Raoul. Mademoiselle Daaé, Mademoiselle André, Monsieur André," he added, nodding to each of us in turn.

We each bowed back to him. Though Michel said nothing, I could sense that he felt pleased at being referred to as _Monsieur_ André.

It came as no surprise to me that, despite our disguises, the mayor knew of our identities. He had seen us all often enough together that it would have been strange if he had _not_ known who we were.

"Good evening, _Monsieur le mayor_," Gisèle replied, ever the gentlewoman.

"Oh, none of that, none of that," M. de Chagny muttered, waving one hand as if he could wipe away his position with it. "Tonight's a night for merrymaking! Why are you not out enjoying the festivities?"

"Why, to see you!" Raoul said, as if it were the most obvious reason in the world. He walked around a large wooden crate and placed a quick, brotherly kiss on the older man's cheek. "I could not take off and enjoy myself without seeing my elder brother at least once!"

Philippe smiled as Raoul gave him a quick hug. I knew that Raoul had returned from university only a few days ago, and so their comrade-like behaviour, which was rather uncharacteristic for both of them, would continue for only a few days more.

However, that did not mean that they had not missed each other when Raoul had been away.

"And t-t-to see the fireworks," Michel added, looking about the inside of the tent with a mixture of awe and covetousness. "Who c-c-could p-p-p-possibly afford t-to d-d-donate all of this?"

The mayor gave us all a wide-eyed look of incredulity.

"Why, have you not heard?"

"Heard what?" we all chimed together, sensing a story.

"I have finally found myself in a position to sell Silaton Place – in fact, I _have_ sold Silaton Place, to the Comte di Ribaldi. He sent these fireworks yesterday as a gift to add to our fête; was that not thoughtful of him? He arrives from Paris today, if I recall correctly."

Sudden chills went down my spine, and I was hard-pressed not to shudder, though I hardly knew whether it was from delight or terror. The memory of a penetrating ice-blue eye was suddenly brought to the forefront of my mind.

_He arrives from Paris today._

He _had_ arrived from Paris today.

The mysterious man that I had seen was the Comte di Ribaldi.

"Ribaldi? Is he Italian, then?" Gisèle asked, excitement evident in her open expression. She and I moved out of the way as three men entered the tent to select more fireworks.

Philippe de Chagny waited until the men had left, and then shrugged. "I do not know, for I have neither seen nor spoke with him. I have only ever conducted business with his solicitor – er…I can never his name–"

"Is he a tall man of Middle Eastern descent, perhaps Persian, with jet-black hair and light green eyes?"

Every eye turned towards me, shock evident in their expressions. I flushed in the awkward silence, but did not volunteer more.

"Yes," Raoul's brother finally answered, his voice coloured with astonishment. "But – pardon me, but how did you know?"

"I saw him today," I answered quietly. "Him…and the Comte di Ribaldi."

_BOOM!_

"Christine! You might have said!" Gisèle admonished as she, her brother, and Raoul drew closer to me, their eyes alight with curiosity.

I laughed. "To be honest, I was so caught up in the excitement of tonight's masquerade that I had nearly forgotten about it."

That was not entirely true. I had been caught up in the excitement as a _means_ of forgetting the unsettling encounter.

During my walk home, I had been preoccupied with questions concerning what had happened. A relentless mantra pounded within my mind: who was he? Why was he here? Why did I feel this pull towards this man, a man whom I had only briefly glimpsed? That memory had repeated itself more times than I would care to admit…

When I had reached the cottage, I had realized that the best thing to do was to forget the whole affair – not that there had been much to forget in the first place. But I did not want to pursue another silly infatuation; I was – for the most part – content with my life remaining the way that it was, without it being turned upside-down by a stranger.

It seemed, however, that I would not be allowed to forget.

_BOOM!_

"Tell us what happened!" my friends begged.

I was strangely unwilling to share my short story; it seemed too private a moment, too intimate an experience. I summarized what had happened, making it to sound as if it had been just an ordinary glimpsing of nobility – but it was never ordinary to glimpse nobility in Rouen, let alone one traveling to take possession of a decades-abandoned mansion with a right-hand man who hailed from the Middle East.

I noted with dismay that Raoul frowned deeply when I described the Comte as "handsome".

_BOOM!_

There was a pause after I had finished my tale.

"So," Gisèle said slowly, mercifully breaking the silence, "he is _not_ Italian."

I nearly laughed aloud in relief. "I don't believe so, although I cannot be sure."

"How extraordinary," Philippe de Chagny murmured to himself.

"If I had s-seen a m-m-member of the nob-b-bility, I would not have f-f-f-forg-gotten," Michel said softly.

Raoul said nothing.

_BOOM!_

"Oh, get on with you," Philippe said to us, suddenly gruff. "And take your tales of mysterious noblemen with you; I still have to oversee the lighting of these fireworks!"

Thus dismissed, we left the pavilion, each of us wishing the mayor a good night over our shoulders.

I somehow felt responsible for the serious mood that had settled over our small group, so when Michel asked what we should do next, I immediately expressed a desire to dance. Gisèle took up my cause, trying to persuade her younger brother as I looked imploringly at Raoul, my eyes opened to their widest and most alluring. The boys went along with our game, pretending to be horrified at the thought of dancing even as we moved towards the main square. Eventually, they surrendered, and we ran to the square, our former lightheartedness restored.

The Summer Solstice is more often than not the warmest night of the year; this, combined with the fact that the Assembly Rooms (3) were far too small to hold the number of people who wished to dance at the festival, had caused the dancing to be held outside in the main square. The musicians were set up along the steps that led to the Rooms themselves, and the dancers formed a line that more often than not was so long that it curved around the marble fountain in the center of the square. Some complained of the inconvenience – not to mention the impropriety – of dancing out-of-doors, but I thought it a wondrous thing to dance out in the open, under the night sky.

Raoul asked for my hand, and I granted it. Michel and his sister joined us as we found a place in the dance.

I lined up with the other women, barely suppressing a grin of excitement as we waited for the music to begin. It started quietly, and then grew in volume as the last of the latecomers readied themselves.

We moved in time with the rhythm; our actions were controlled by it. I felt the familiar sensation of the beat echoing in my chest, taking the place of my heart as I moved down the line in the high-spirited reel. My feet, encased in small but sturdy slippers, skipped and jumped lightly over the smooth cobblestones, and I was swept away by the raw freedom I felt in my movements.

For the first time in months, I felt truly graceful.

My arms curved playfully about me as I weaved in and out of the line of dancing partners: a human thread in the tapestry of dance. I reveled in the feel of my skirts flowing and twining about my legs, in moving with grace, energy, and freedom…and suddenly, I laughed to the open sky.

I had not felt such pure, unadulterated joy for so long; yet here, with the music moving me and my best friend dancing with me – laughing with me, I was overcome with an incredible sense of light and happiness.

I felt true belonging.

* * *

_**An Anonymous Stranger**_

"She was not a vision after all."

I turned to look at my companion. The tone with which he had spoken those words was so soft, awed and beautiful – rendered all the more beautiful by that voice: it could command angels – that I at first did not realize that it was he who had spoken. Looking past the black porcelain mask – he had chosen to dress as Othello, of all people – I watched his eyes as they focused on a point far away. I followed his gaze, though I was sure I knew what – or rather, _whom_ he was staring at.

I was correct.

"Her name is Christine Daaé," I offered.

"I am aware of that fact," he growled, the habitual coldness creeping back into his voice.

We were silent for a few moments as the music and sounds of crazed revelry echoed about us. Smiling slightly, I watched as the young woman whom I had seen along the way to our new home danced a lively reel. Despite the white mask that covered the top half of her face, I still recognized her; there was no mistaking that wild mass of dark curls. She laughed suddenly, and it struck me that, out of all the citizens in this town, she was the one who both appreciated and enjoyed the dance the most.

"She's the one."

I whirled to stare at him, horrified.

"My lord – you can't mean – and so soon–!"

He cut me off with an irate swipe of his arm. "Frankly, _mon ami_, I am tired of waiting!"

A wealth of painful history lay behind his words: history that I knew all too well, for I had experienced it by his side. I could not chastise him, for I had been a witness to his sufferings; I had even felt them myself, though he thankfully was entirely unaware of it. I waited in silence, but he did not say anything more.

"What would you have me do?" I finally asked, defeated.

He pressed his lips together in silent thought, then replied: "Keep an eye on her. Learn more of her."

I quirked an eyebrow. "And you?"

His mouth twisted into a bitter smile that did not reach his eyes. "I think that it would be best if I took my leave before these–" he paused, but I could still hear his derision as clearly as if he had screamed it, "–_people_ start to ask too many questions. And it really would be in the interest of no one if I were to still be within the vicinity of tonight's fête at the time of the unmasking, don't you think?"

I nodded slowly. He knew that the unmasking did not take place for several hours more, and what was more, he knew that I knew.

His masks and disguises might fool others, but he could not fool me.

With a flick of his dark cloak, he turned and immediately disappeared into the crowd. I knew I would not see him again until I returned to the house later that night – or possibly early the next morning; one could never be sure with the French – and would most likely find him brooding by the fireplace or asleep at his desk, pen and manuscript in hand.

I allowed myself the luxury of sighing once in exasperation, and then moved to a more discreet place where I could still "keep an eye" on Christine Daaé.

* * *

_**Christine**_

_I love the part in fairy tales  
That's very near the end,  
When all the kingdom cheers for their new queen  
And all is well, and all is good,  
And ev'ryone belongs,  
And happily they're ever aftering_

_But when I enter the kingdom of dreams  
And face the promise of all I can be,  
Will they see me as a heroine?  
Tell me, will they let me in?_

_And if a heart's breaking,  
A part of me's aching  
To show them how much that I care  
But if no one lets me  
Or turns and forgets me,  
Then how,  
How can I share?_

_There is a part in fairy tales  
That's very near the end:  
The princess and the prince proclaim their love  
And hearts are healed, and souls are changed,  
And two blend into one,  
All orchestrated by the stars above_

_But when I stand at the door of my dreams  
And face a lonely heart calling for me,  
I could fill that emptiness within,  
If that heart would let me in…_

_Won't someone let me in?_

The last note of my father's song hung and wavered in the night air, light as the smoke from a dying candle. Applause echoed around my feet, and I curtsied in gratitude, my legs shaking and wobbling like a newborn foal's.

I had done it. I had sung for everyone.

It was of course not the grand affair that I had imagined in my childhood. I did not think that I would ever be in a position to sing in a talent contest during a masquerade.

The contest was always held on an outdoor platform in the middle of the main street. Anyone who wished to attend the performance could simply stand and watch; those who did not could make their way to other places and amusements. The tall, half-timbered buildings that surrounded the street enhanced the acoustics, which often helped to catch the attention of masked passersby.

Knowing this fact had not served to abate my feelings of anxiety when I had first stepped onto that platform.

After the last act, a panel of three judges – Messrs. Debienne and Poligny, and Madame Lefevre – debated as to whom should receive the first, second, and third place awards. As they were often making marks during performances, and were of similar minds, they usually came to an agreement very quickly.

It was the judging that I both dreaded and anticipated the most.

I slowly descended the steps, a shy smile on my face. Gisèle, Michel, and Raoul awaited me at the bottom, their faces split into proud grins as they approached me.

"That was amazing!" Gisèle cried as she briefly wrapped her arms about my shoulders.

"You were gr-gr-great, Ch-ch-christ-tine," Michel added, still grinning.

"Beautiful," Raoul murmured, open approval in his eyes.

I opened my mouth to thank them, but a hand on my elbow stopped me. I turned, and came face-to-face with Carlotta, arrayed as the beguiling Carmen.

She regarded me with a conscious air of superiority, and I tried very hard not to wilt under her gaze as I waited for her to speak. I had learned very quickly that it was best to allow her to "make the first move", as Michel often termed it, and then respond. After all, it was better to be on the defensive as opposed to the offensive: better, at least, for my conscience and the feelings of those involved.

Carlotta gave a small, delicate sniff, then said artfully: "Well, Christine Daaé, you _have_ improved."

The _double entendre_ of her words was not lost on me. It could _perhaps_ be meant as a compliment, but I knew Carlotta too well: it was an insult. Ever since that incident almost three years ago, she had carried a vengeful grudge against me. I tried to be kind to her – even to the point of apologizing for my angry words that day at the schoolhouse, although I had meant every single one of them – and yet, she still persisted in her dislike towards me.

But I refused to be drawn into conflict, no matter how much I wished to defend my performance – although _that_ had not quite met with my high standards. I would not be taken in, not here in this crowd of people and within sight of the judges, at this masquerade that was meant to be a joyous occasion.

"_Merci_, Carlotta," I simply replied.

Her eyes tightened in displeasure, and it was with quiet triumph that I realized I had frustrated her more with my kind words than I would have with angry ones. We were all silent for a moment: Raoul and Michel bearing hostile expressions, Gisèle standing just behind me with a tinge of fear in her eyes, Carlotta staring at us all with disdain.

Suddenly, her perfectly shaped lips twisted into a sneer. "What beautiful shoes, Gisèle! They match your dress perfectly!"

And with one last contemptuous glance at my friend's worn and patched shoes – her _only_ pair, at present – Carlotta sauntered up the steps to the stage.

"Why, you–!" Michel growled as he started after her.

"Michel, please!" I interrupted him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Not here."

He stopped for a moment, then exhaled a bitter sigh. I was relieved to see that the anger in his face had diminished somewhat.

"Sh-she should n-n-not have s-said that, n-not t-t-to m-m-my s-sister," he muttered darkly, glaring at Carlotta as she lifted her ribs and cleared her throat.

"Of course not," I answered quietly. "But you must realize that returning hurt for hurt will only make things worse. Trust me: I know."

I turned to Gisèle. She was mute, pale and trembling from the shock of the surprise attack she had suffered. Tenderly, I wrapped my arms about her shoulders.

"Pay her no heed, Gisèle," I whispered. "She's just a spiteful creature who is superficial enough to judge people on their outward appearances. If she really knew what a wonderful person you are, she would not have dared to say such a wicked thing."

My friend nodded weakly, but I could not ignore the hot tear that fell onto my shoulder and burned a trail down my back.

Carlotta threw a triumphant smirk our way – I was glad that Gisèle was positioned in such a way as prevented her from seeing it – then shook back her magnificent head of auburn curls and opened her mouth in a perfectly trained O.

_Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir,  
Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir, _(4)

I felt my face turn white with shock.

"Raoul," I murmured. He turned to me, an expression of concern on his face.

"It's the Jewel Song," I whispered.

_Est-ce toi, Marguerite,  
Est-ce toi?_

_Réponds-moi, réponds-moi,  
Réponds, réponds, réponds vite!_

"In _Faust_, Marguerite sings this aria when she receives a gift of jewels from her admirer," Raoul explained to our friends when they looked at us with questioning glances. "It's one of Gounod's most renowned pieces of music."

Michel and Gisèle turned to me. Comprehension, and then compassion, dawned on their faces when they remembered just exactly whom I had dressed as.

I wrapped my arms about my torso: one hand resting at my waist, the other across my shoulder, hiding my bodice. Suddenly, I wished that I had followed my intuition and pushed my aunt to allow me to dress as Gilda, or someone else.

Anyone but Marguerite.

"Oh, Christine," Gisèle said in a quiet tone of pity. Raoul placed a hand on my shoulder: comforting in its silent weight and warmth. Michel glared all the more fiercely at the _prima donna_ onstage.

_Non! Non! Ce n'est plus toi!  
Non...non, ce n'est plus ton visage;  
C'est la fille d'un roi;  
C'est la fille d'un roi!  
Ce n'est plus toi,  
Ce n'est plus toi,  
C'est la fille d'un roi;  
Qu'on salut au passage!_

I simply could not believe that this was about me. It must have been a coincidence; Carlotta would still have chosen to sing that song, even if I had dressed as a wind-up monkey that belonged on a barrel organ. What could she possibly have to gain by purposefully scheming this?

_Your mortification_, a tiny voice whispered in the back of my mind. I pushed it away forcefully. That could not be true. Carlotta did not know me well enough; she could not hate me that much.

Could she?

_Ah, s'il était ici!  
S'il me voyait ainsi!  
Comme une demoiselle  
Il me trouverait belle, ah!  
Comme une demoiselle,  
Il me trouverait belle,  
Comme une demoiselle,  
Il me trouverait belle!  
Marguerite, ce n'est plus toi!  
Ce n'est plus ton visage;  
La, ce n'est plus ton visage;  
Qu'on salut au passage!_

Not a single note had been sung out of pitch. Each one had resonated perfectly, with the exact amount of breath support needed to make it triumphantly loud or delicately soft. She had never hesitated, and certainly had not forgotten any words or phrases.

In short, Carlotta's performance had been faultless.

I closed my eyes against the roar of the applause that surrounded me.

* * *

I stood in a line with the other contestants upon the platform, waiting anxiously for the judges to come to an agreement. They seemed to be debating heatedly about something; I saw Mme. Lefevre gesticulating with her arms, an animated expression on her face. Messrs. Debienne and Poligny were shaking their heads at her and speaking in low, firm tones.

I looked at the man to my left. He was adorned in the brightly coloured outfit of a jester, with a white harlequin's mask concealing the top half of his face. He had both amused and awed everyone with his witty jests and talent in juggling, and had helped to restore my spirits after Carlotta had performed.

He glanced down at me, and I smiled nervously up at him.

Returning it, he murmured out of the corner of his mouth, "I thought you did quite well."

"Oh – _merci, monsieur_," I whispered, startled. After a moment's pause, I added, "Your performance was extraordinary; where did you learn so many tricks?"

He grinned. "God gifted me with a sense of balance, a wife with a unique sense of humour, and too much time on my hands. Those 'tricks' were the natural outcome."

I chuckled under my breath.

Monsieur Debienne stepped onto the stage, three certificates and a small roll of francs in hand.

"_Messieurs et Mesdames,_ thank you for joining us here tonight!" he began. The people who had grouped about the platform erupted into applause again.

"_Merci, merci_," he said, nodding and bowing as if he had performed as well. "After some deliberation–" I noted with no small degree of displeasure the frown with which he looked upon Mme. Lefevre, "–we have carefully selected the winners of tonight's contest. In third place, Romeo and Juliet!"

I clapped along with everyone else as an older couple stepped out of their places in the line to receive their certificate and money as their reward. The couple – whomever they were; the judges would not reveal the true names of the contestants, for fear of spoiling the unmasking that would take place in an hour – had performed the beginning of the fifth scene from the third act of Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_ – translated into French, of course. I smiled as they bowed and curtsied once more before disappearing into the crowd. They had performed remarkably well.

"In second place, the Jester!"

"Congratulations," I said just above the enthusiasm of the people below us as the man began to walk past me. He smiled in response, then claimed his prize. After repeating one of his shorter tricks at the request of the audience, he walked off of the stage, found Mme. Lefevre, and intimately slipped his arm through hers.

I smiled again, self-effacingly.

Monsieur Lefevre. I should have known.

"And, in first place…"

I waited with bated breath, my heart fluttering in my throat. It was foolish to hope; I had hardly any training in the art of singing, especially in comparison to others who had sung tonight, and my father's song was virtually unheard of. Yet a part of me wished – wanted so desperately…

"Carmen!"

I stared at Carlotta in dismay as she stepped forward, a triumphant smile stretched across her face. She eagerly accepted her certificate and money, and I was sure that she would be parading around a new fashion accessory come morning.

"And that concludes our contest for this year! Do not forget: the unmasking will be taking place at the main square in one hour!"

Slowly, the crowd began to dissipate. I followed my fellow performers as they made their way back down to the street.

Trying to take deep breaths, I worked to calm myself, forcing the burning sensation at the corners of my eyes to disappear. _No, not here_, I told myself firmly. I was mortified, to be sure; despite the fact that I had repeatedly thought that I had only entered the contest to sing and not win, a part of me, however small, had dreamed and hoped that I _would_ win, that someone would see the hard work and love that I had put into my performance. I had hoped that my childhood dream could still come true.

It was foolish – no, not foolish; simply immature on my part. I knew that Carlotta would enter – she never could pass up the opportunity to showcase her talent – and I should have better prepared myself for disappointment.

But still…it would have been nice, to have the dream come true.

My friends met me at the end of the makeshift stairs, trepidation and pity plain in their expressions. Raoul took one look at my face, and then swept me into a friendly embrace.

"Christine, I am so sorry," he said in a low tone; I could feel the pleasant sensation of his voice vibrating in his chest. I closed my eyes and sighed softly: a reprieve to my built-up feelings of disappointment and bitterness.

"You should have w-w-won," Michel added when Raoul and I broke apart.

I shook my head gently. "No; Carlotta sang much better than I did. She's a _horrible_ person," I added when their stares of incredulity and worry became too much to bear. They all chuckled at my uncharacteristic statement, and the corners of my mouth briefly twitched upwards.

"But…being bitter won't make me a better singer."

I left them, walking slowly towards where Carlotta stood within a circle of admirers. Perhaps I was asking too much of myself in so short an amount of time, but my mother had raised me to be kind to everyone around me, even those whom I disliked or who disliked me. I would not dishonour her memory by being petty or spiteful, even though it would be much easier to simply walk away.

When I felt that I could safely interject without exactly interrupting, I placed a hand to Carlotta's elbow, much as she had done for me a matter of minutes ago. She turned, gaping when she recognized me.

"Congratulations on your success," I offered, my tone of voice much calmer than I felt. I forced myself to smile benignly.

Carlotta recovered from her shock rather admirably.

"_Merci_," she managed to choke out. After a moment, she added with an airy wave of her hand, "It really was nothing; I was expecting it, after all. I ought rather to thank _you_," she bent towards me with an expression on her face that I had learnt to fear, for all that it was familiar to me, "for my success. You see, it was you that inspired me to sing the aria that I chose."

I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me. Shock clouded my mind, and I could not think of anything to say. Carlotta's admirers stared at me; some tittered nervously, others glared at me down long noses. Carlotta herself grinned in sadistic vengeance, and then turned back to her company. To my burning shame, they broke out into a fit of hysteric laughter.

Stepping back slowly, I found myself willing my eyes to stay dry once more. My suspicions were correct: she had sung the Jewel Song as an intended slight against me.

_Why?_ Why did Carlotta hate me so much? What had I done to deserve this? I had honestly tried to be kind to her; there had been nothing artful in my manner. And _still_ she persisted in her cruelty…

My eyes wandered mournfully around at the backs of the retreating strangers, the kaleidoscope of bright colours. How I should love to lose myself in it, and forget that any of this had ever happened –

Something caught my eye – or rather, _someone_.

He was dressed as he ought to have been. A rich scarlet robe embroidered with tiny gold thread hung majestically about his shoulders, covering the cream-coloured long-sleeved tunic underneath. A belt of plated gold – wrought in intricate, swirling designs – encircled his trim waist. Wrapped about his head was a turban made of red velvet; at a point just above his forehead, a large yellow topaz – glimmering like liquid in the lamplight – pinned a tall peacock feather to the fabric. Strangely, he was unmasked, and so, despite the distance between us, I recognized him immediately.

He was the Comte di Ribaldi's solicitor.

I peered more closely at him. His penetrating eyes were focused upon mine, and a strange expression lay within them: it was as if he was surprised, although not displeased, at something that I had done.

And then he did something even more strange. Placing both palms together, fingers held upward, he held his hands at just below chin-level…and bowed.

I raised my eyebrows in an expression of shock. Was I dreaming? Had the incident with Carlotta so overcharged my mind that I had begun to hallucinate? Surely, this man could not be bowing to _me_!

I looked over both shoulders to ascertain if perhaps he had been bowing towards someone else, someone that I had not noticed. There was no one. When I turned back to face him, an amused smile lit up his face: displaying white, even teeth beneath his carefully trimmed moustache. He nodded slightly, as if to answer my unspoken question.

I took a step closer, my brows knitting together in confusion. Who exactly was this man? Why was he acting so deferential towards me: a young woman whom he had never met before? And – I hardly dared to think it – if _he_ was here, then where was his enigmatic employer?

"Christine!"

I whirled, startled at the sound of Raoul's voice.

"What are you staring at?"

I looked back to where the Comte's solicitor had been standing.

He had disappeared.

I quickly scanned the crowd for any sign of a red velvet turban, but there was none to be seen. Turning slightly, I smiled up at my friend's curious face.

"Nothing, Raoul."

* * *

(1) This is NOT TRUE. I am only inserting this for future purposes of the story (those who have seen Rigoletto probably know what I'm talking about). That sentence is COMPLETELY FALSE. Do I need to say it again? IT'S NOT TRUE. Do NOT quote me on this; you will only make a fool of yourself, and I refuse to take any responsibility should it happen.

(2) Méphistophélès (Satan's name in Gounod's opera _Faust_) comes to Dr. Faust in the first Act when Faust invokes the powers of Hell, rejecting science and faith. Méphistophélès promises the doctor his services on Earth, if he will serve Méphistophélès in Hell.

(3) From Wikipedia: "…gathering places for members of the higher social classes open to members of both sexes…Major sets of assembly rooms in London, in spa towns such as Bath and in important provincial cities such as York, were able to accommodate hundreds, or in some cases over a thousand people for events such as masquerades (masked balls), conventional balls, public concerts and assemblies (simply gatherings for conversation, perhaps with incidental music and entertainments). By later standards these were formal events: the attendees were usually screened to make sure no one of insufficient rank gained admittance; admission might be subscription only; and unmarried women were chaperoned. Nonetheless, assemblies played an important part in the marriage market of the day. A major set of assembly rooms consisted of a main room and several smaller subsidiary rooms such as card rooms, tea rooms and supper rooms. On the other hand in smaller towns a single large room attached to the best inn might serve for the occasional assembly for the local landed gentry." Once again, this is another thing that you must NOT quote me on; from what I have seen in my little store of research, there are no assembly rooms in Rouen. This is just something your whimsical authoress has inserted into the story so that she sounds like she knows what she's talking about. ;D

(4) Marguerite's famous aria from Gounod's _Faust_. The literal translation, written by Lea Frey, is below. In my opinion, the lyrics are rather fitting for Carlotta…

_Ah, I laugh to see myself so beautiful in this mirror,  
Ah, I laugh to see myself so beautiful in this mirror,  
Is it you, Marguerite,  
Is it you?  
Answer me, answer me,  
Respond, respond, respond quickly!  
No, no! It's no longer you!  
No...no, it's no longer your face;  
It's the daughter of a king,  
It's the daughter of a king!  
It's no longer you,  
It's no longer you,  
It's the daughter of a king  
One must bow to her as she passes!  
Ah if only he were here!  
If he should see me thus  
Like a lady  
He would find me so beautiful, ah!  
Like a lady,  
He would find me beautiful,  
Like a lady,  
He would find me beautiful!  
Marguerite, it's no longer you!  
It's no longer your face;  
Yes, it's no longer your face;  
One must bow to her as she passes!_

You will leave me some love, won't you? -smiles beseechingly-


	10. Chapter Eight: Some Newcomer Banker

_A/N: And what, you might ask, is my excuse for the late update this time? Basically, I wrote the next chapter as planned in my head, the story/characters got out of control, and I ended up with a crappy pile of OOC-ness on my hands. So I skipped it and went to the next chapter, which is rather short. I've already started working on the next chapter, but I should warn you all that I have finals (but only two! HAHA!), graduation, and a big move ahead of me. But I promise you all I _WILL _try to update faster._

_This is mostly just a filler/foreshadowing chapter, but it _will_ be important later. Also, if any of you are interested in reading a Cat R. Waul/Tanya Mousekewitz (Fievel Goes West) fanfic, PM me and I'll give you the link to mine._

**Principia:** I appreciate that you took the time to point out any accent discrepancy, but I would have appreciated it even more if you had offered some constructive criticism on the story itself. Unfortunately, I have absolutely no idea what you meant by the last three words on your review, so forgive me for disregarding it.

* * *

**_Chapter Eight:_**

**_Some Newcomer Banker_**

**_-Philippe de Chagny/Richard Firmin-_**

* * *

"Our thoughts are unseen hands shaping the people we meet. Whatever we truly think them to be, that's what they'll become for us."

-Richard Cowper

* * *

**Philippe de Chagny**

"_Bonjour_, Philippe."

I looked up quickly at the sound of my name. So absorbed had I been in balancing the books that I had not heard the door to my store open – and for the first time this morning; but then, it _was_ the morning after the Summer Solstice festival – to admit one of my few true friends.

My look of surprise changed into calm delight. "_Bonjour_, Paul," I returned as Paul Lefevre approached the counter behind which I stood.

I glanced down briefly at my accounting and finished writing my last note.

"Have you heard about what happened to the Mifroids?"

I nodded, still looking down. Paul was referring to one of the families that lived – well, _had_ lived on one of the farms outside the city. Unfortunately, they could no longer afford the place, and had been forced to sell.

"Yes, I have. He is fortunate that he has a brother that they may stay with in Paris. They can start afresh."

I capped my inkbottle, blew the last piece of parchment dry, and placed the book in its respective place on the shelf underneath the counter. When I rose, I added, "One would think these places had legs, the way they just disappear nowadays."

Paul nodded. "I should know," he muttered: half in earnest, half in sarcastic amusement.

I chuckled when he did.

We chatted idly for a few minutes, bartering questions and comments on the festival, the weather, our work, and so on. I waited patiently for him to bring up whatever business he had come here for. Unlike most of my customers, he never came here simply to exchange gossip.

Finally, during a lull in our conversation, he pulled out two separate pieces of crisp parchment from his dark leather attaché case. (1)

"This is the certified copy of the contract drawn up for Mme. Muscat's property that you requested."

He slid the copy into my waiting hand. My eyes devoured the words greedily.

"_Merci_," I murmured.

"There is another thing."

Something in the tone of Paul's voice caused me to halt my examination. I looked back up at his face, and the expression I saw there vaguely unsettled me. He looked as if he was about to deliver some shocking news, and was bracing himself for my reaction.

"What is it?"

"I received a visit from Nadir Khan earlier today. The Comte di Ribaldi's solicitor," he added when he noticed my blank expression.

"Ah, yes." _I never could remember the poor man's name._ "And what was his business?"

"He came to my bank to open an account on behalf of the Comte. He also bade me notify you of two things. The first was that, as of this morning, your price for Silaton Place has been paid in full."

I braced myself against the countertop, hardly daring to breathe. Surely this could not be true! Silaton Place was not in the best condition, but that fact still did not greatly diminish the property's value. Even with all of a nobleman's accumulated wealth, I had still been sure that it would take _le Comte_ several installments _at least_ to pay it off!

"Paid? In full?" I whispered hoarsely.

Paul only nodded.

I exhaled loudly. "And what was the other thing?" I enquired, sure that there was some sort of catch.

"Merely that _le Comte_ would like to buy the Lecroix cottage from you. He has already chosen a price; all you must do is sign here." He pushed the second piece of parchment towards me.

The price was much more than the cottage had ever been worth. I signed on the blank line below, too dazed with wonder and relief to either dispute or protest.

"Why the Lecroix cottage?" I murmured to myself over the scratching of my ink pen.

To my slight surprise, Paul heard me. "M. Khan would not say why. He simply said that the Comte wished to obtain the place, and that the Comte's wishes must always be granted. M. Khan was very emphatic about it too," he added with a small frown.

"_Le Comte di Ribaldi_," I whispered as I passed the contract back to him. Then I wondered, louder this time, "Why would a man like him come to a place like this?"

He replied with an expressive shrug. "How should I know?"

Paul slipped the parchment back into his attaché case, then turned to leave.

"Have a good day," he called over his shoulder. "Give my regards to your brother!"

"I will," I answered.

The sound of the little bell ringing echoed strangely after Paul closed the shop's door behind him. I braced myself against the counter once more, temporarily giving in to shocked relief.

Silaton Place and the Lecroix cottage paid off in the course of one morning! It was more than I had ever hoped for! That would pay for the rest of Raoul's time at university. Some new clothes for the both of us were in order, and new curtains…

I closed my eyes tightly, fighting the relieved tears that threatened to spill over.

_Thank you, Monsieur le Comte. I don't know who you are; I don't even know what you look like…but all the same, thank you._

"You sold Christine Daaé's house?"

I shot up, startled. Raoul had silently entered through the nondescript brown curtain that divided the store from the storeroom. He now stood in its entrance, a sack of sugar in his arms.

Clearing my throat to conceal my sudden emotion, I walked around the counter and followed him to the sugar barrel. As I removed the circular wooden lid, I answered, "Well, it wasn't really hers – or her family's – but yes, I did sell it."

We both were silent as Raoul tipped the sack over the edge, creating an avalanche of the little sweet granules.

"Will she – will they still live there?" he asked, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the nearly full barrel as he shook the sack to dislodge the last of the sugar.

"I'm sure they will. I can't imagine that the Comte would have bought the Lecroix cottage just to turn them out, especially since they're such good tenants."

My younger brother exhaled sharply. "Is that really all you care about? Are people of no value to you except to make money off of?"

I paled. What had I said to prompt this offensive attack?

"No, Raoul; of course not! Where is this coming from?"

"Do you think I don't know?" he retorted, a rebellious light burning in his eyes.

I could not hide from the accusation in his words, but I would neither deny nor confirm it, not even to explain that my desire to give him the best life possible was the reason I did just about anything. Silence enveloped us as Raoul and I stared each other down.

He snorted quietly in bitter disappointment when I refused to answer. "Of course. It doesn't matter to you that these people are already going through hard times. It doesn't matter that the Girys have already lost a home, that Meg and Christine have already had to adjust to new lives, just so you can be _paid_ –"

"About Christine," I interrupted, forbearing to drive home my point that simply because ownership of the Lecroix cottage had exchanged hands did not mean that the Girys and Christine would be evicted. Those two words had the effect I desired: Raoul abruptly stopped speaking.

Gently, I took the empty cloth sack from his hands and began folding it into a neat little square. I was somewhat hesitant to voice the question that had been churning through my mind for some time now.

"Raoul, I – I know that you care for her very much…and I know that she is a very fine young woman. But – this nonpareil girl of yours – is she really…has Christine ever given you any indication, any reason to hope that she might reciprocate your affections?"

He did not answer me – at least, not aloud. His cheeks flushed with more than their usual rosy colour, his hands clenched into fists; I thought I even detected a new shiny quality to his eyes.

But before I could lift a hand to comfort him, he grabbed the neatly folded cloth from my hands. After mumbling, "I'll be in the back," Raoul trudged back through the curtain.

The room was as silent as if he had never been there.

* * *

**Richard Firmin**

I wiped my boots vigorously against the tattered mat that lay just outside our front doorway, nearly stomping in my haste. Setting down the now empty pail that I had taken outside with me, I walked over to the place where my wife Amèlie sat in her wheelchair, mending a hole in our son's trousers.

"Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ kids these days!" I burst out when she looked up at me. "Honestly, I don't know where they get some of their ideas!"

"What happened?" she asked, the epitome of serenity.

I sighed heavily, then took off my threadbare hat and slapped it against my knee as I sat down in an adjacent chair.

"I caught Thomas and his friends laughing and jeering at my pigs. Imagine, taunting a creature created by the same God that created us, just because it don't look like everyone else! Never mind that it might actually have feelings beyond hunger and thirst, just so those boys can have some amusement!"

"Imagine," she repeated quietly. Though her head was slightly bowed over her work, I was sure I detected a darkness in her eyes, and knew that she was thinking of her condition.

I laid a gentle hand on her forearm. "I gave them a talking-to about judging on appearances, then sent them away."

"Did they listen to you?"

I leaned back in my seat. "I hope so, but I don't think it likely. But I've done what I can. Now it's up to them to choose what to do."

She nodded. We sat in comfortable silence for a few of her stitches.

Suddenly, she asked: "Did you hear that the Mifroids lost their farm yesterday?"

I snorted bitterly. "The Mifroids as well?"

My wife nodded again. "Couldn't make mortgage."

Exhaling sharply, I cried in frustration: "You that times really are bad when a decent, upstanding family like the Mifroids can lose their home just like _that_ -" I snapped my fingers for extra effect, "- to some newcomer banker that no one knows nothing about."

She set down her sewing and looked me straight in the eye.

"No one knows who exactly took their farm, Richard, just some bank!"

"I hate to enlighten you of this disappointing fact, but bankers _run_ banks."

She arched an eyebrow. "I am aware of that," she replied with a touch of coldness in her voice as she resumed her sewing.

I sighed, then again laid one hand on her arm.

"I-I'm sorry, Amèlie. It's just that...none of this is fair."

"But who said life is fair?" She smiled a hard, bright smile, one that I could only barely return. No one could truly smile in the face of her brave bitterness.

"Someone finally bought Silaton Place," she added, quickly changing the subject, and I faintly wondered just how much time she and Mme. Giry had spent gossiping this morning. "It's been fixed up so that it looks just like a castle from a fairy tale."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "_Really_? Some quick fix-up! The place looked like a heap of junk not a week ago! Probably that banker," I added to myself. Amèlie frowned slightly, but gave no other indication that she had heard.

I stood up and stretched, my stomach growling loudly. I had risen early that morning to attend to our livestock and our garden, and my body was now protesting the lack of nourishment almost to the point of distraction.

"What's for breakfast?" I asked, eager to sate my hunger with my wife's wonderful cooking.

She studiously kept her eyes on her sewing as she tied off the last stitch.

"Bacon."

* * *

(1) Basically a briefcase with two compartments.

* * *

_I wasn't kidding when I said it was short, especially in comparison to the previous chapter - but then, most things are. But that won't keep you from leaving me a review, will it?_


	11. Chapter Nine: Eviction

_A/N: It doesn't _always_ take me a month or longer to update. Thanks to those who encouraged me with my final (turns out there was only one); I did well! And as a beginning-of-summer-vacation present, I give you this latest installment, in which the plot really starts to get on its feet and Mme. Giry – well, you'll see…_

_Disclaimer: Once again, not mine, though you really should check out (most of) the stuff I'm quoting while you're waiting for an update._

* * *

_**Chapter Nine:**_

_**Eviction**_

_**-Annette Giry-**_

* * *

"The day after Rose brought home her cloak, we received a final blow. A letter arrived from Mogens saying that due to lack of payment of rent, we must vacate the farm in less than a month."

-Edith Pattou, _East_

* * *

"I was just as surprised as Gisèle to find that the man who persisted in dancing with her was _Jean_," Christine concluded with an emphatic raise of her eyebrows. "But I suppose that's the purpose of masquerades."

"Generally, yes," I responded with a wry smile as I tried to scrub off a particularly stubborn stain on the plate in my hands. It never ceased to amaze me how much larger the amount of housework became when one took even a short time away from it. I had departed with my husband and daughter early that day, leaving Christine to catch up on her sleep, and spent the better part of the morning helping Amèlie Firmin with her own housework, as well as conversing with her and enjoying her company. When I had returned and my niece had awoken, we set to cleaning our own cottage after the previous day's bustle and excitement.

We had just begun with the kitchen, as it was the smallest room. Perhaps the fact that we almost never had an excess of food was a blessing in disguise, for if Christine's and my frames had been anything but their usual petite size, maneuvering about each other in the diminutive room would have presented a challenge indeed.

"I am glad that you en-"

My words were interrupted by a short, resolute knock at the front door.

I turned to Christine. She wore a look of confused surprise, her hands pausing in the action of drying Meg's tin mug.

"Are you expecting anyone?" I enquired with a small frown as I removed my apron.

She shook her head. "No," she murmured, and her hands resumed their occupation.

I crossed the parlour, smoothing down my hair and gown. Strange, but I couldn't seem to shake the shadow of foreboding in my heart. Perhaps I was becoming too fatalistic.

I was surprised to find Claude du Flotte on the doorstep. Though he was Rouen's mail carrier, he hardly ever left his office during the day except on matters of urgent business. What was so important that it could not wait until my next excursion into town?

He removed his hat and gave a watery smile, which I returned nervously.

"Pardon the intrusion, madame, but I have a notice of utmost importance here, which I was told to deliver to you with as much haste as possible."

He handed me a small, thin envelope of rich vellum.

"I'm very sorry, Madame Giry," he added slowly. He donned his hat, then disappeared down the path.

My hands shook as I turned over the object in my grasp. A macabre yet unfamiliar seal of scarlet wax greeted me cheerfully; I felt a strange satisfaction in tearing it apart.

Inside was a single sheaf of parchment, covered in elegant, slanting penmanship. My eyes widened when I understood the letter's full import.

It was an eviction notice from our new landlord, the Comte di Ribaldi.

* * *

It was a struggle to keep my temper in check. In my mind, I railed against the Comte, taking a vicious pleasure in inventing the many ways I would like to insult the man.

_That preposterous, stuff-shirted, two-faced baboon! Who does he think he is, evicting my family and me without so much as a weak excuse of a reason? How I'd love to box his ears and cane him thoroughly!_

I had left Christine at home with the vague explanation that urgent business called me away. When I had reassured her that it was nothing that endangered our family and friends – _at least, not at present_ – she had calmed enough to promise to stay and take control of the housework until I returned.

I did not know exactly why I had been loath to reveal everything to her. Perhaps it was because the situation was so like our previous misfortune in Paris, and yet not. We once again faced the possibility of losing our home, but this time I had the opportunity to take matters into my own hands. Jules was both intelligent and diligent, but I knew that a coerced eviction would surely break him. He would lose all strength, and would not even think to fight.

But _I_ would.

I would persuade, threaten, wheedle, and even plead in order to keep our cottage. I would do anything – well, almost anything. If only I knew _why_ the Comte wished to evict us! It could not possibly be our behaviour as tenants; even if we were anything other than meticulously well behaved, the Comte had not been our landlord long enough to know so. I highly doubted that it was because he was in need of more money, but if a higher rent could persuade him to allow us to stay, I would do whatever necessary to pay it so that my family would not be homeless once more.

This time, _I_ would do this.

My walk to Silaton Place was a blur of anger and wild desperation; I barely felt my legs tread the unfamiliar path beneath me for the turmoil raging inside my mind. So lost in my thoughts was I that it was not until I had passed through the gates that I saw the difference.

I had not truly believed the rumours that I had nonetheless repeated to Amèlie. One would have to be a wizard or some sort of miracle-worker to renovate the mansion in such a short amount of time.

Yet, somehow, the Comte had done it. Gone were the wildflowers and twisted trees, the cracked stone, the broken windows, the half-empty doorway, and nature's wreckage. In their places were a groomed garden of jasmine, violets, lavender, cedar, lilies, and an abundance of roses; smooth, polished stone that I could now see was a gentle blue-grey; gleaming windows that serenely reflected the midmorning sun; and a large terrace free of debris and rubbish. The rough and splintered doors had been replaced with specimens appropriate for the beautiful grandeur.

There should have been birds chirping merrily in the foliage, with children playing and laughing in the garden. At every moment, I expected to see some sort of animal, an evidence of life in this changed place. There was not even an insect that I could hear. Instead, the place was as lonely and silent as a sepulcher.

It was a feast for the eyes, but poverty for every other sense.

I squared my shoulders resolutely as I traversed the length of the white gravel path and up the terrace steps. This ornate transformation would not blind me. I doubted that that was the intention, but I still would not allow myself to forget who lived inside there and exactly what I had planned to say to him.

I expected to find a large bell pull by the front door – or doors, as was the case – but there was none. Instead, I rapped soundly against one of the double doors using the brass knocker. It was in the shape of a fierce lion, its mouth open in a silent roar with the ring caught between its sharp teeth. I glared at it as I waited, the eviction notice clutched tight in my bare hands.

Finally, one of the doors opened halfway. Holding it in place was a swarthy man dressed in a dark butler's suit, blinking and squinting slightly when the bright sunlight reached his eyes. Behind him was all dim shadow.

"May I help you?" he asked formally, a slight accent flavoring his words.

"I'm here to meet with the Comte di Ribaldi." I responded, careful to hold myself up ramrod straight as I looked him directly in the eye.

He regarded me curiously. "And your name is…?"

"Annette Giry. His tenant." My eyes narrowed infinitesimally in accordance with my short, cold tone.

The man's eyes, which I noticed were an unusual but not unpleasant light green, widened the moment I stated my name.

"Madame_ Giry_!" he uttered in what could only be termed as a gasp. "Please, do come in." He held the door open wider to grant me entrance as he made ushering motions with his other hand. Somewhat surprised at his manner, I nonetheless followed his direction and stepped inside.

"You must forgive my master," the man continued as he took my bonnet and pelisse, clearly flustered. I noted that his accent had thickened in his agitated state.

"He knew that you would come, but not nearly so _soon_! I assure you, madame, the house would not be in such a state otherwise!"

My jaw dropped slightly. "He…he was _expecting_ me?"

He instantly stiffened, as if he had only just realized what words had slipped out of his mouth. I anxiously awaited his reply. Instead, he turned and put my things away in an empty closet not far from the door; then, as he gave me a stiff, formal bow:

"I will inform the Comte of your arrival, Mme. Giry."

He began to leave.

"Wait!" I called after him. "What did you mean, the Comte knew that I would come? Why is he expecting me?"

But the man disappeared through a door on the right wall without so much as a backward glance, his last clicking footsteps echoing ominously around me.

I sighed loudly in exasperation, and added "untowardly mysterious" to my rapidly lengthening mental list of the Comte di Ribaldi's faults. I was of a mind to pace, but as I began to truly look about me, I could hardly bring myself to take another step.

I stood alone in the foyer, and it was the most magnificent room I had seen in years. The floor was made entirely of white gold-veined marble, polished to an impeccable, spotless sheen. The ceiling rose high enough for two storeys; built into it was a large glass dome, from which hung an exquisitely intricate gold chandelier with surely fifty candleholders at least. The walls were a soft, gentle white, with delicate cornices and wooden molding painted over with gold leaf. It was a long room, with many doors built into both sides, and a grand staircase at the end.

The staircase – also built of white gold-veined marble – split into two halfway up its flight, and I was forcibly reminded of the foyer of Garnier's opera house. This one also had a gallery built into the second storey that overlooked where the stairs split, but there was a significant difference between the two. Affixed to the base of the Comte's gallery was a golden statue unlike anything I had ever seen before. It depicted three beautiful women arrayed in drapery that looked as if it had only been sculpted to avoid a scandal, all the while enticing the easily excitable male imagination. Two male figures – their features closely resembling the generic ones of Greek tragedy masks – reached out from each edge to the woman closest to him. The two women by their male counterparts gazed below them with ecstatic smiles stretched across their cherubic faces, but the woman in the center was raising both her eyes and her arms heavenward, a garland of ribbons and flowers held up like an offering in her graceful hands. A large pair of wings, which I thought belonged to the woman in the center, stretched out behind them all.

It was beautiful, barbaric, and bizarre.

But the room was like the garden: beneath the beauty and opulence, cold silence and solitude reigned. The only light that filtered into the grand room emitted from the glass dome overhead, and dust motes descended slowly in the weak, ethereal light. All of the windows that I could see were covered by large, heavy drapes that were as red as a bloodstain against the pure white. One of the walls was dirty and unwashed; dust and cobwebs still lay undisturbed in some corners. Only two of all the doors that lined the walls of the first level were open, and both were dark inside. The gallery and what I could see of the floor above were completely covered in oppressive shadows.

Shuddering slightly, I folded my arms protectively across my stomach and began to tap my booted toe against the floor. I stopped quickly, spooked; the sound echoed much too loudly against the watchful stillness.

The door through which the swarthy man had entered opened again to admit him. He stepped briskly towards me, expressing a little confusion at finding me still in the same place that he had left me.

Perhaps he was unused to well-behaved guests, though why he should be so I could not begin to understand.

"Madame Giry, the master will see you now."

He began to lead me towards the room that he had just departed. The man's previous agitation had completely disappeared. His present manner was now calm and aloof; one could even call it grave. Faintly, I wondered exactly what it was that he and the Comte had been speaking of for so long as I had examined the main room.

The man paused outside the door without opening. I very nearly reached for the door handle myself, but his next words stopped me.

"Madame…you may enter this room only with the promise that you will step no further into it than the Oriental rug."

My brow creased in puzzlement. "The – the rug? Why?"

"To the rug and no further. Madame," an earnest light coming into his eyes, "if you step onto it, or go any further…you have this assurance from my master that your interview _will_ come to an abrupt end. Do you understand? This is of utmost importance." He ended in an urgent whisper.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The man sighed quietly, evidently relieved, and opened the door for me.

The room inside was even darker than the one I had left. At first, the only things that I could see were the dying embers in the fireplace and the weak sunlight that filtered through a pair of yellow gauze curtains: also framed by heavy crimson drapes. As my eyes adjusted to the shadows, I began to distinguish shapes: glass-covered bookshelves, a Broadwood Grand pianoforte, a small gold clock that chimed merrily, a harp, twin chairs, a violin and its bow, a painting above the fireplace – the content of which I could not discern – an empty birdcage, and a large, dark Oriental rug that lay within inches of my toes.

And on the other side…

I could barely see a large, thronelike chair across from me. It looked to be made of iron: even in the dull light, the carvings in its sides did not gleam as brightly as silver. The cushioning was covered by black velvet; at least, what I could see of the material, for lounging nonchalantly in its shadows was an imperceptible yet very male figure.

"Good morning, Madame Giry."

_The Comte di Ribaldi._

I stepped as close to the edge of the Oriental rug as I dared.

"Your – your butler said that I–" I began as I gestured towards the carpet before me.

"Take three steps towards the pianoforte, then stop in the light. I want to keep an eye on you."

It did not occur to me to disobey. Stopping in the small patch of light – if it could indeed be called so – that issued from the gauze curtains, I peered fruitlessly into the darkness. Though his ostentatious chair was drawn up by the fire, the dim red glow did nothing to relieve the stark shadows that obscured the Comte's features.

Frustrated by this, I blurted out, "I also like to be able to see whom I am speaking to."

"Sight is overrated, Madame Giry," he answered with deadpan quickness. "And if that was a request to move closer…"

He trailed off, dangerously quiet, and the pause that ensued seemed to last for an eternity.

"…then my answer is no. State your business."

I was beginning to feel unnerved. The silent yet beautifully thriving garden; the glorious yet dirty foyer; the butler from the East who feared his master as if he were a god; the Comte himself, who had expected me but would not explain why, all the while hiding in darkness, his deep hypnotic voice slowly calling down my defenses…it was too much of an alien experience for me. Even in Paris, where one is certain to come across an extremely eccentric personage at least once every few months, I had never encountered anything quite like this. It was almost as if I had stepped into another world, one in which I had no idea of the customs or rules. Even my temper, which had waxed eloquent not ten minutes ago, had been quelled into silence since I had stepped onto the grounds.

_Oh, this is ridiculous._

I cleared my throat, deciding that the most direct appeal was best. "I am in receipt of your notice."

He made a low, scoffing sound. "And I suppose you've come to protest it?"

"Wholeheartedly!"

His head – or, the dark outline that I was sure was his head – fell back to rest against his chair. He sighed in exasperation, as if he had been continually pestered with an inane question hundreds of times, and replied in a tone that was only beginning to strike me with its beauty, for all that I hated the meaning it conveyed: "On what grounds? It is _my_ property, and therefore none of _your_ concern."

A hot flash of anger filled my body, and for a moment I was speechless with rage. Not my concern? How could this man be so callous? Just because it was legally his property did not mean he had the right to turn out my family, who had more of a right to call the cottage home than anyone else!

"It _is_ my concern! It is _my_ family that lives there, and not you! If you turn us out, my husband and I will be without work, and without work we will have nowhere to go!"

I stopped myself before I could make things worse with my outburst. The silence stretched on, only broken by the odd pops and cracks from the fire. I was sure that the next words from the Comte would be a sound dismissal, but he surprised me yet again.

"This cottage," he murmured, half in incredulity, half in some deep emotion that I could not fathom, "this tiny, rustic, insignificant cottage means so much to you?"

"Of course it does."

"_How_ much?"

I took a deep breath to steady myself. "My husband and I were paying Philippe de Chagny 25 francs a month, but I am prepared to pay you 30, perhaps even 35 francs."

A low, rumbling sound emitted from the darkness, and I realized belatedly that it was a darkly amused chuckle.

"Is your home really of no more value to you than 30 or 35 francs a month?"

"Of course it is worth more, but that is all I can afford to pay! Besides, what could this old house be worth to _you_?" I rebelliously muttered the last sentence to myself.

To my dismay, he heard me.

"Very little," was his enigmatic response. "You see, to me this is a house, while yours is a _home_. One is merely physical, while the other is also spiritual."

I heard more than I saw him shift forward in his seat.

"You of all people in this godforsaken hamlet ought to know such things, Madame Giry."

Perhaps it should have occurred to me to be offended by his intended slight towards the place that had come to mean so much to me, but I was instead extremely confused by what he had meant.

"I should? How?"

He did not answer. Instead, he leaned back slowly in his seat, and I suddenly felt that I had disappointed him somehow.

"Allow me to ask you again: what value do you place on your _home_?"

I shook my head, too confused by his cold, mercurial manner. What was he truly asking? What was I supposed to say?

"I-I don't understand –"

"Just think for a moment." His tone became more patient, a tone that I had never expected to hear from him. "What is of greatest value to you, something that you care for more than anything else in this world?"

I did not have to think twice.

"My family." I smiled for the first time since I had received the eviction notice, as I remembered each beloved face.

"Yes, your family," he repeated, his voice now more of a growl. "More specifically your oldest daughter, the one who sings."

I shook my head again. "Christine is my niece, not my daughter."

A ripple of surprise broke the tenuous and temporary serenity.

"Your niece?" the Comte repeated. He was silent for a moment, then muttered: "That changes things."

I felt a tremor of foreboding at his words, but before I could enquire further, he continued. "If you want something of value from me, then it is only fair that you provide something of great value yourself."

I barely suppressed a shudder. There was something wrong; his words, the earnest way with which he uttered them…whatever it was, I knew I would not like whatever he would say next. And yet, I was not in a position to refuse. As much as I despised my current helplessness in this situation, I hardly had a choice. He had caught me neatly in the trap he had set. I knew it, and he knew that I knew it, and I hated him fiercely for it.

"What do you propose?" I whispered.

"You may have your home free –" my breath caught in my throat, "– on one condition: Christine will live here on weekdays and work as my housekeeper. As long as she works for me, you will never want for a place to live."

The bottom of my stomach dropped. _This_ was a price I had not anticipated! Christine, the niece whom I had promised to look after, the person whom I cared for almost like my own daughter…she was to _work_ for this man? But they had never even met! Surely, with all of his accumulated wealth, he could hire a skilled and experienced housekeeper without going through the trouble of blackmailing a family with nothing to give! What sort of interest could the Comte take in Christine? She was beautiful, to be sure–

My blood ran cold as I unwittingly began to suspect the dark man in front of me of more malicious intentions than I had heretofore suspected him of.

"But Christine is so young!" I protested. "She is still rather inexperienced. Why not take me instead?"

The Comte's baritone voice was low and reassuring when he spoke again. I almost believed him when he said, "Madame, if it is truly your charge's safety that you are anxious for, then you need not worry. Her tasks will be simple: dusting, sweeping, washing dishes, and so on. She will be allowed to spend Saturdays and Sundays with you, as long as she does not leave before Saturday morning and returns by Sunday evening. Trust me: this house is the safest place imaginable for her, for I will not allow her to be harmed in any way."

Almost I believed him.

_Almost_.

But then I remembered the notice and the cold, emotionless words that formed it. I remembered his selfish, arrogant manner at the start of our interview when he had spoken of _his _property. Even now, when he was presenting me with a life-altering ultimatum, he would not do me the courtesy of showing me his face. I understood his whole plot as it really was: a trap set to bring me and mine to our knees, entirely at his mercy, so that he could steal Christine away for secret intents and purposes which I could not understand and he would not reveal.

I would not subject Christine to this. The cottage was not worth so much that I would give up one of my family members to keep it. I would rather that my family be homeless but together, than to have a roof over our heads and Christine always absent. I had promised my sister that I would look after Christine and keep her safe; blindly committing her to the hands of an enigmatic and inscrutable nobleman was _surely_ not the best way to go about doing so.

In fact, it was quite possibly the worst.

My short, staccato answer rang loudly in the waiting silence.

"No."

There was a short, breathless pause as I awaited the Comte's reply.

"_No_?" he gasped in incredulity. "No…and why not?"

"Because…because you're so cold and cruel! How dare you evict my family from our home without reason! And how can you expect me to just give up my niece to your care when the only thing I know of you is that you are heartless enough to expect me to do so?"

His fingers, encased by black leather gloves, tightly gripped the edges of his armrests.

"'Cold'? 'Heartless'? What, you think me without feeling like a common _beast_?" He spat the last word in horror and derision. My skin turned into gooseflesh as his anger began to crackle in the air, heralding the approach of a frightful storm.

We were both silent for a moment; I waited in fear and dread of his reaction. He drew in a sharp breath as if he were summoning all the powers of his fury and scorn, and then expelled it with two words.

"_Get out!_"

I flinched. The biting edge in his beautiful voice was now sharper than a thief's knife.

"_Leave!_" he cried when I did not move. I gasped, and then crossed quickly towards the door that led away from this horrid room. "Be gone, and never come back!" he shouted at my retreating figure as he rose from his chair.

I paused with my hand on the smooth doorknob, and turned back to look at him once more.

It was a mistake.

Though the Comte was still shrouded in shadows, I could see that he had straightened to his full height, which was considerable. He seemed to fill the whole room with his blackness, and I thought I saw the gleam of two blue eyes burning like the fires of Hell. My heart almost stopped with fear.

"_GET OUT!_"

I did not need to be told again.

I nearly collided with the butler when I ran out of the room. I did not even stop to explain what had happened, but perhaps I did not need to; as I ran across the marble floor, I could hear the Comte shouting again.

"_Nadir_! Nadir Khan, if you value your Persian skin, you will come to me _NOW_!

Tearing the door open, I seized my hat and pelisse from where they hung in a dusty closet two-thirds the size of Jules's and my bedroom. Not bothering to put them on, I ran out the double doors and down the steps, away from that transfigured manor of bizarre mystery and black ugliness.

* * *

_A/N: -shivers- Uh-oh, she made him angry! I really am so excited that this chapter is up; I've only been looking forward to this for months on end. _

_If you have any suggestions for any moments you'd like to see between our somewhat-doomed prospective lovers, please include it in your review. :-)_


	12. Chapter Ten: Flight

**_

* * *

_**

**_Chapter Ten:_**

**_Flight_**

**_-Christine-_**

* * *

" 'Beauty,' Father said. 'I refuse to let you go.'

'What will you do then, tie me up?' I said. 'I _will_ go, and what's more, if you don't promise right now to take me with you when the time comes, I will run off tonight while you're asleep.' "

- Robin McKinley, _Beauty_

* * *

"_Me?_ Why me?"

"He would not say."

"And you refused his offer?"

"Christine, it was not an offer. It was a _threat_."

"But you refused him?"

"Would you rather that I had accepted?"

I looked down at the off-white tablecloth and the half-empty plate in front of me, shamed into silence.

My family and I sat at the small square table that we had placed at the end of the parlour closest to the kitchen, but no one was eating. After my uncle had said grace, my aunt had calmly launched into the details of her "urgent business". If her outward serenity was meant to cushion the blow of what she had to tell and keep the rest of us in a similar state of tranquility, then her purpose failed. My uncle's face and neck had flushed deep crimson when Aunt Giry had informed us of the Comte's ultimatum. Meg cried openly and held my hand as if she and she alone could protect me from the dark nobleman.

I gripped her fingers tightly in turn. Though I had been silent while my aunt spoke, I alternately paled and flushed with fear and shock…and the growing seed of determination.

I forbore to correct my aunt and tell her of my brief encounter – if it could even be termed so – with the Comte on the road to Silaton Place. Though it had taken place little more than twenty-four hours ago, the event seemed to be permanently seared into my memory. That morning, as I had lain in the hazy minutes between sleep and consciousness, the memory had repeated itself again and again until I had arisen in order to escape it.

_Was that it, then? Was that short glimpse the Comte and I had had of each other the reason that I now stood in this predicament? _

In the back of my mind, I was almost disappointed in the man. If that glimpse truly was his reason for doing this, then it was a faulty one indeed, for what could he know of me besides my outward features? And if his desire was to know me better, then why would he not do so without threatening my family?

It was a threat, just as my aunt had stated, and there was no way around it. The Comte was both rich and powerful, and we were not.

There was no way around it…and only one solution.

I felt as if I stood before the edge of a great abyss: forbidden to turn back, yet unwilling to move forward. It was too ironic. Though I had grown quite comfortable in our present mode of life, I had secretly begun to crave adventure, and pursue it in the only form I knew how: novels. Now I fully understood what the phrase "be careful what you wish for" truly meant.

Unlike the heroes and heroines I had read of, I did not feel courageous, or even vaguely heartened.

I was terrified.

And yet, I knew that the choice that frightened me so was also the only choice that I could make. Whatever my faults were, willful selfishness and cowardice were surely not listed among them. I would not allow my family to be turned out of the home that we had come to cherish so much, simply to spare me from the strange whims of a powerful nobleman. They would never again feel the same pain, fear, and degradation that we all had suffered three years ago…not if I could help it.

But I would miss them very much.

"_Would you rather that I had accepted?"_

It warmed my heart that my aunt had refused, and yet…

"Perhaps," I murmured to the simply-painted cornflower that adorned the edge of my plate.

_It might have made this easier._

"What?" I heard my aunt and uncle gasp.

I raised my eyes to them. My heart was beginning to pound uncomfortably.

"I'm so grateful to you all – for taking me in. You've done so much for me, more than you'll ever know."

My eyes scanned each face that surrounded me, committing them to memory.

"Now, you must allow me to do my part."

We all jumped when Uncle Giry's fist came down hard against the table, rattling the dishes and silverware.

"No, Christine! I will _not_ allow you to give in to this insane man! You must not even think of it!"

I could not raise my eyes any higher than his scruffy chin. I kept my tone low and steady when I replied.

"Uncle, with all due respect, I am nearly of age–"

"_Nearly_. And as such," he interrupted, pointing a finger towards me as if he were about to accuse me of a crime, "you are still bound by what I say, and I am telling you that _you will not go_."

Meg began to sob. She cradled my hand to her tear-stained face.

"Christine, please don't leave me!"

I had to turn my face away. My resolve was already beginning to crack; if I continued to face this painful sight, it would break entirely, and I _would not_ allow that to happen. I would not be that weak.

In turning, I now faced my aunt.

"Aunt, you must support me in this!"

"Have you gone _mad_?" was her response. Her hazel eyes bulged as if _she_ were the one afflicted with a malady. "You cannot possibly even consider giving in to his demands!"

"I can, I must, and I _will_! Can you not see that there is no other way out of this? If I will not do as he says, then he will turn us out into the streets. My freedom–" I nearly choked upon the word, "–seems a small price to pay in comparison."

Uproar and chaos ensued. Meg cried harder than ever, and my guardians' words were indistinguishable as they fought to be heard over the other.

It was too much. I snatched my hand away from my cousin's grasp and stood. Plate, utensils, and mug in hand, I glided into the kitchen, hoping to escape the noise and tension for at least a few brief moments so that I could rally my spirits and my determination.

To my dismay, they followed me.

"Christine!" my aunt called out over Meg's subdued sniffs as I set down my small burdens.

More out of habit than desire, I stopped and faced her.

The room suddenly became quiet. My aunt approached me cautiously, as if I were a songbird ready to fly away, and placed her hands on my shoulders. The warm, human weight of them was comforting, and my mind seemed to find a center amidst the whirlwind raging inside my skull.

"_Ma chèrie_ – this is not worth it. Things like houses, beds, food – they can be replaced. But there is only one _you_. Having you in our lives cannot be replaced. I would willingly give up a thousand chances to live in a manor like Silaton Place to keep you."

I raised my eyes to hers, then placed my own hands just above her wrists. My mind seemed to have been silently struggling to comprehend something, and the realization burst forth at what I felt was an opportune time.

"But you _will_ keep me! Can you not see this? The Comte said that I will be allowed to spend Saturdays and Sundays here. You will see me…perhaps not as often, but you will. It's not as if he's forbidden me from ever seeing any of you again. Maybe – maybe he's not all bad."

My aunt was already shaking her head.

"Christine, the fact that he has set this in motion in order to have _you_ at his house is 'bad' enough! Noblemen do not just take an interest in beautiful yet poor young women for any innocent reasons! I will not have you harmed! I–"

She cut off. Her jaw suddenly went taut, and the expression in her eyes became quite fierce. It wasn't until her nose and cheeks flushed, and her eyes began to fill, that I realized that she was crying.

_She was crying! My beautiful, regal, strong aunt was _crying_!_

"I promised your mother that I would protect you and keep you safe," she began after a long pause, and her voice sounded strained as one's will when one's throat has become horribly tight. "I promised her! And I intend to keep that promise."

I stepped closer and wrapped my arms around her shoulders, holding her to me. She gripped me tightly, as if she would imprison me in her embrace and never let me go, not even if the Comte himself tried to pry her arms away from me. Rubbing her back softly, I whispered tonelessly in her ear, still recovering from the shock of seeing her weep, "Shh, shhh. It's all right. I won't leave you. Everything will be all right. I will stay."

I closed my eyes, hoping that my uncle and cousin would not see the lie that lay within them.

* * *

The next morning, I arose early in the melancholy grey light that precludes the dawn. I had scarcely slept the night before; nothing short of my arms around Meg would calm her enough to sleep, and I had lain awake wracked in both guilt and fear. I had never told a falsehood before, and last night I had lied to my family on a subject that should never have been lied about. I had tossed and turned, alternately considering and deciding against going into my guardians' bedroom and revealing the truth to them.

But I did not.

Not long after midnight, I had penned a note to my family that expressed my intentions and the strength of my determination, while using such forbidding language as would surely prevent them from trying to undo what I had planned. Well, almost all of them. I would not underestimate my aunt so much as to think that she would just accept this without a fight. Were it not for my natural shyness of confrontations, she and I would certainly have been more than a match for each other.

I had spent the rest of the night on the window seat, which my friends and I had all carved and installed together, dozing fitfully against the cool, smooth glass window. I had dreamed of Silaton Place, but in my dreams, when I entered the building, it resembled _l'Opera Populaire_. A strange creature always waited for me. Sometimes it was a dragon; another time it was a Minotaur. The last time, it was a decaying death's-head with eyes that burned like the fires of Hell. I was barely able to keep myself from making any noise whenever I awoke from these strange dreams.

When there was just enough light for me to distinguish shapes in the room again, I tiptoed silently past my cousin's bed where she lay, sprawled and snoring, and changed into a simple forest green gown. Emptying the few remaining contents of my satchel onto my bed, I began to gather my few treasured possessions into it. My diary, the book of faery tales, my father's music, and my ink pen – _though the Comte was sure to have more than enough of those_ – quickly filled it.

I wrapped my mother's scarf around my neck, noting sadly that the scent of roses was beginning to fade. A cloak of nearly the same colour as my dress went over my shoulders.

My stockinged feet made no noise on the stairs, and I was grateful that none of the steps squeaked. I had just enough presence of mind to leave my note on the dining table before I laced on my boots and headed for the door.

I did not look back.

I had not looked back at all during this, the most trying part of the journey. It was difficult enough to know that I was leaving, that a part of my life – however arduous it could be – was now over, never to be regained. I found myself being thrust into a world populated and controlled by adult desires and concerns, and I mourned for what I had left behind. And yet, because of who I was, I could not turn back. I could not shield my eyes and ask it all to go away. It would not disappear simply because I refused to see it.

I would face this head-on; it was the only thing I could do.

The door closed swiftly and quietly behind me, without the trace of noise.

I stepped off the doorstep and into the unknown.

* * *

_And so Christine leaves the realms of childhood and sets off into the real world. More to come, and when I say more, I mean _more_. Many thanks to Kates for beta-ing this chapter and "advertising" this fic in hers. If you all are stumped for a good/amazing/heartfelt/romantic POTO (crossover) phic to read, head over to her profile and check out her stuff!_

_...You will leave me an encouraging note, right? Who knows; I might loan out our dear, enigmatic Erik for one night to those who review..._


	13. Chapter Eleven: Mysterious Information

* * *

**_Chapter Eleven:_**

**_Which Is Far Too Full Of Mysterious Information_**

**_-Christine-_**

* * *

"Be to her, Persephone,  
All the things I might not be;  
Take her head upon your knee.  
She that was so proud and wild,  
Flippant, arrogant, and free,  
She that had no need of me,  
Is a little lonely child  
Lost in Hell, – Persephone,  
Take her head upon your knee:  
Say to her, 'My dear, my dear,  
It is not so dreadful here.'"

- Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Prayer to Persephone"

* * *

I gulped loudly as I knocked on the front door. The sound was unsettlingly loud in the early morning stillness. Not even the chirping of birds or humming of insects broke the silence, and—to my nervous ears—my knock seemed as rude and unexpected as a slap in the face.

I drew my cloak closer about me. Though it was June, a fine layer of silvery clouds obscured the sky, blurring the features of the world below into calm, muted shapes. The clouds would burn off within a matter of hours to reveal the sun in all its fiery glory, but in the meantime, the morning had a distinctly cold edge to it.

But then, that was only _part_ of the reason for my chill.

As I stood on the doorstep of my fate, my heart pounding with both excitement and fear, I felt my limbs go cold. My hands trembled slightly and my breath would not come steady. Before now, I had not allowed myself to think of what might or might not happen once I arrived, for fear that it would weaken my resolve to the point of turning back. But now, as I waited anxiously for someone to open the doors, doubts began to tug at the corner of my mind in much the same way a nagging child would pull at its mother's skirts.

_"Noblemen do not just take an interest in beautiful yet poor young women for any innocent reasons!"_

_"Once upon a time, there was an innocent young maiden who was taken in by a scheming libertine…"_

_What if this is all a ruse? What if he has tried to ensnare you for darker reasons than taking you away from your family?_

I flinched away from that thought. Instead of pursuing these doubts, I conjured into mind my most recent memories of my family, and allowed them to swell into all the dark corners of my mind. A deep sense of peace settled over me.

_Whatever happens to me now, at least I can be happy in the knowledge that they are safe._

I closed my eyes for a moment, inhaling the thick, sweet smell of the jasmine and white roses that twisted and climbed around the mansion's façade.

_Yet, somehow…I do not believe that he would harm me._

* * *

An interminable amount of time later, the double doors creaked slowly and laboriously open. A tall, lean figure appeared out of the gloom inside, wearing…a dressing robe?

I raised my eyes to meet a dazed—and more than _slightly_ bemused—jade-green gaze.

_The Comte's solicitor!_

We stared at each other for a moment in mutual confusion, shock, and humiliation.

"Christine Daaé?" he muttered, as his tired eyes began to focus. He pulled the collar of his robe and flannel nightshirt even tighter around his neck.

I dropped an awkward curtsey, unsure of where to look. I did not think to ask how he knew my name.

"Forgive me, monsieur, for arriving without previous notice, and at such an hour. My family–"

I cut off abruptly, lost for words, as I fought the burning at the corners of my eyes and the sudden tightness in my throat.

Thankfully, he took control of the situation.

"That's quite all right," he said softly, his speech somewhat slurred from fatigue. "I ought rather to ask your forgiveness for appearing–"

Here, modestly, he clutched again at his collar—a motion that I would have been hard-pressed not to laugh at, in better circumstances.

"–In this unseemly fashion, and…well, _entirely_ out of countenance."

He glanced behind himself, then back at me, as if he were unsure of what to do in such a predicament as this. I did not blame him. I highly doubted that it was a common occurrence for poor young women to arrive on a nobleman's doorstep a mere hour before dawn, evidently before the household had risen for the day.

"C-come in," he said, finally, and opened the doors wider. I followed him inside, gripping my satchel tightly.

The foyer was just as my aunt had described it, and more. The muted pre-dawn light gave the room an air of esoteric grandeur. I could almost believe that, here, the all-encompassing silence was a being in its own right.

The Comte's solicitor cleared his throat softly, interrupting my gawking.

"If you will wait here, Mademoiselle, I will show you around the place after I—ah…"

"Prepare yourself for the day?" I supplied, the corner of my mouth lifting in amusement.

He grinned self-effacingly.

"Quite."

Then he turned on his heel and silently disappeared up the shadowy stairs.

Thus left to my own devices, I stared about the cavernous chamber with wide eyes. I had seen grand, opulent rooms in buildings in Paris before, but even in its sadly half-neglected state, the foyer of Silaton Place surpassed all my memories of similar places. It was not entirely implausible that those memories had dimmed through the passage of time, but that did not detract from my awe of the place.

It was so elegantly white and breathtaking—and there were so many doors!

I stepped towards one without thinking. It was so early in the morning—surely the only ones awake in this house were the Comte's solicitor and myself. And if this was to be my second home, then certainly it was permissible to look around…

The first door that I opened revealed a little drawing room of the same colour scheme as the foyer, albeit with much smaller and plainer furnishings. A door on the opposite wall was already open, revealing a long, straight corridor. The thought occurred to me that perhaps this unimpressive, tight room was reserved exclusively for any unwelcome guests.

I chuckled lowly as I stepped back and shut the door silently.

The next room I saw was only partly furnished. It was much larger than the previous chamber, but what little furniture there was inside was covered with nondescript white cotton sheets. I glimpsed a large globe on a stand and a map of Europe hanging on the wall opposite it, but forbore to examine the room further.

It was as I was shutting the door to the map room that I heard it.

Within the morning's stillness, the silvery tones of a piano's notes threaded through the air. I listened carefully, and the melody began to grow slightly louder. It was a melancholy song, full of resignation and haunting beauty.

It was Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata".

Bewitched, I began to drift towards the music's source. Crossing the foyer, I approached a door that I had not yet thought to open. It was placed not too far from the shadow of the split staircase, and the door seemed strangely to cower and hide, as if it wished to escape the world's notice.

I reached out to touch my fingers to the smooth brass handle–

"Mademoiselle Daaé!"

Withdrawing my hand, I whirled around to see the Comte's solicitor standing halfway down the staircase. He was dressed in a black butler's suit and his hair was combed—all traces of his previous exhaustion gone—but his eyes flashed with a harrowing alarm that sent a thrill of true fear up my spine.

The music ceased.

I stepped away from the door and hid my hands in my skirts, feeling foolishly like the proverbial child caught with her hand in a bag of forbidden sweets.

He descended the last of the stairs slowly, floundering for words. I was at a loss as to whether I should allow him to speak first, or apologize for my untoward curiosity. I nearly began to apologize, but then–

"I—mademoiselle, that door which you were about to open…you must never, _ever_ open it."

Well! This was something I had not expected!

"Will you promise me never to enter that room?" he pressed, fervently.

What reason could I have to protest? My own curiosity?

Wordless, I nodded.

He bent his head slightly towards me.

"I can't hear you."

Stifling a sigh of exasperation, I murmured, "Yes, I promise."

"Good," he sighed as he straightened. He turned to lead me towards one of the doors on the other side of the magnificent foyer.

"But, please," I burst out, "why may I not enter that room?"

He looked back at me—cautiously, it seemed—as though he were not sure as to whether he should reveal the mysterious and unfathomable ways of this household to me, a stranger. I simply looked at him, my eyes flared wide with pleading.

Something in his expression seemed to give; his lips tightened for a moment, and he sighed heavily. Turning again, he sat on the bottom step of the grand staircase and gestured for me to do the same.

I obeyed, hugging my satchel to myself as I awaited his explanation.

He looked darkly at the troublesome door for a moment.

"That room is the music room, and it is there that the master spends most of his time—more time, in fact, than he spends even in his own chambers. The master is a very…how shall I say this…_unpredictable_ man: prone to sudden changes of mood, and very possessive. He desires his privacy above almost anything else in life. Should you invade that privacy–"

–And here his eyes focused on mine with such intensity that I shrank back, ruing my curiosity on the subject and wishing that I had not asked–

"You will risk his anger. His anger can be absolutely terrible! Not even _he_ can control himself when he is in a foul temper!"

His eyes lost some of their former light as he shuddered at some unspoken memory. I stared at the ground. What in the world I had gotten myself into?

"_Now_ do you understand?"

I nodded, then added, thinking that he might again ask me to confirm myself audibly, "I understand."

He stood up slowly, and I followed suit.

"Now, come," he said in a voice that was much more lighthearted than it had been mere seconds ago. "Allow me to show you about Silaton Place."

* * *

The mansion was even larger inside than it appeared to be on the outside. I soon despaired of being able to find my own way around, but the man—whose name, he informed me, was Nadir Khan—presented me with a rough sketch of the house's floor plan, kindly assuring me that I would know my way around the gigantic building soon enough. I folded the paper and tucked it into my sleeve, sure that I would be referencing it many times that day.

My first assignment was to mop the floor of a room that would be used to showcase some of the finer statues that the Comte owned. This place was of a medium size in comparison to the other chambers of the house, yet it was still easily larger than the whole first level of my family's cottage.

One tear, then two, mingled with the soapy water that I scrubbed into the floor. Briefly, I rested my forehead against my hands and the smooth handle of the mop that I held.

_No_, I told myself firmly.

_No._

Instead, I thought of my new situation in life, and the many questions that I longed to ask…_someone_.

Who exactly was the Comte? What was his name? Why had he come to Rouen, and to a house like this one? It was beautiful, to be sure, but the fact that he had chosen this particular house—with all its years of neglect and its impenetrable sense of mystery—was sure to set tongues wagging in nearly every parlour of the city.

I knew my fellow citizens too well to expect them to react any differently.

I stopped for a moment and looked around myself, taking in the high ceiling, the ornate columns and molding, and the tall windows—only one of which was uncovered by its scarlet curtains. It was such a grand, large place—I felt so insignificant, passing through its halls—and yet it was so lonely. I had expected to see more evidence of life as M. Khan had escorted me through drawing rooms, parlours, kitchens, dining halls, and so on: a few maids, perhaps, or at least a cook. But the only people in the mansion were M. Khan, and me…and the Comte.

The Comte di Ribaldi was evidently wealthy enough to have anything that he desired.

Why, then, had he chosen such a cold, lonely existence?

_Perhaps it was not by choice…_

I strode along the length of the room, tearing aside each curtain and opening the narrow panes of glass to the glorious morning beyond. A warm breeze entered hesitantly, bearing the scent of roses, sunshine, and chamomile. I smiled into it.

"Yes, you _are_ welcome," I murmured.

As I returned to my task of cleaning the floor, I noted with satisfaction that the musty and neglected smell of the room was already beginning to dissipate.

Impatiently pushing back another errant curl, I suddenly wondered—why _me_? Why had the Comte done all this to _me_? If it was a matter of housekeeping, then _surely _he could afford to hire a woman who _at least_ had a better idea of what she was doing! Was he such a miser that the thought of yet another expense had spurred him to concoct an elaborate scheme to obtain free help?

_If free help was all that he wanted, he only needed to ask…_

No, that seemed too silly a reason.

But then…why?

_"The master is a very – how shall I say this…_unpredictable _man: prone to sudden changes of mood, and very possessive. He desires his privacy above almost anything else in life…His anger can be absolutely terrible! Not even_ he _can control himself when he is in a foul temper!"_

What sort of man was he? Unpredictable, possessive, and apparently capable of a truly terrifying temper…yet I had not forgotten what M. Khan had said, about the Comte spending more time in the music room than any other room in the house. Could he really be so horrible, if he apparently bore such a love for music? I could not believe that. One could not so completely love and appreciate something if one had no heart with which to do so.

But then, perhaps I really _was_ too innocent.

The room that I was occupied with cleaning was located near the end of the west wing, on the ground floor. As such, I barely heard the frantic knocks on the front door and the answering tones of M. Khan's voice were almost indistinguishable. But—however muffled the voice that replied to him was—I would have recognized it anywhere. I forced myself to concentrate on the task at hand through a conversation that seemed to last for an eternity. If the Comte could have found even the slightest fault with the progress I made in those minutes, then he was impossible to please.

Finally, the door closed, and the silence resumed its reign.

I suddenly found it an opportune time to replace the water in the bucket that I had been provided with. After consulting the map, I found that from my location, one could easily access the kitchens via the foyer. I held the heavy bucket to my side, telling myself firmly that I was only going that route because it was much shorter than any other.

When I entered the grand entryway, I easily spotted M. Khan as the only black shape in that white room. He stood leaning against the front doors: pale, trembling, and muttering savagely under his breath.

That was what was so convenient, and yet also frustrating, about the foyer: not even the merest wisp of a shadow could hide in there.

"Who was–?" I began, then stopped myself.

At the sound of my voice, M. Khan looked up at me, leaving off his muttering. Such a profound, heartfelt pity shone from his eyes that I was compelled to turn away. Some people are blessed with the strength to face harsh cruelty and hatred; others, to face deep compassion and love. I did not have that strength.

I turned on my heel and left for the kitchens. I did not want to know who was at the door.

* * *

"Surely not. You are mistaken!"

"I assure you: the master's orders were that you were to dine here."

"But I am not even a hired maid! I should be eating in the kitchens, not amongst all this finery!"

"_Ma chère mademoiselle_, you will not incur the master's displeasure by dining here. He specifically requested that you be treated with all deference, and that your every comfort be provided for."

And with that, Nadir Khan left the room, softly shutting the door behind him.

_My every comfort? Except for when I am providing "the master" with_ his_, I suppose._

I turned and looked at the sumptuous dining chamber that I had recently entered – _in bad faith,_ I couldn't help but think.

A long table better served for a party or banquet greeted my eyes. It was covered by a snow-white cotton tablecloth edged with lace, with a gold satin runner spread lengthwise. Tall candles in brass candelabras were lit, mixing their fragrance of sugar cane and vanilla with the heady scents of the white roses, chamomile flowers, and lilies that fairly tumbled out of the small baskets set along the runner. The joints of the table nearly groaned with the weight of the many dishes present. Roast duck and pheasant; three boats of gravy; baked _and_ mashed potatoes; tureens of chowder and bisque, as well as other soups; whole apples, oranges, plums, grapefruits, cherries, strawberries, and pears; a large, leafy salad with at least seven different dressings; long carrots soaked in a brown sugar syrup; and more met my alarmed gaze. There was one tall chair drawn up before a single setting of white china and fine cut-glass crystal.

At any moment, I expected the Comte to come charging in, demanding that I take myself off to the kitchens, where I knew I belonged. But nothing interrupted my slow, stiff progress to the solitary seat that compelled my exhausted body to rest within it.

It was not my place to take what was evidently the seat of honour—I bore no pretense of being unaware of my position; M. Khan had the advantage over me of at least being _paid_—but I will not deny that it felt heavenly to sink into the rich velvet after a long day of scrubbing, lifting heavy objects, and fighting back tears and painful memories. For a moment, I allowed my eyelids to slide halfway closed as I gazed drowsily at the beautiful scene before me: the candlelight illuminating everything with a soft, ambient glow.

Here, in this cavernous room, I could almost believe that the shadows that lay just beyond my island of light were alive. Beneath the whispered hissing and guttering of the candles, a slight rushing sound echoed about me. Though all of the tall windows were shut, one of the velvet curtains rippled in the restless darkness.

I bolted upright, my eyes flared wide. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the wooden edges of the armrests on my chair.

"Who's there?"

Needless to say, my breathless, fearful question went unanswered. The silence—an omniscient presence that pervaded the house—assumed a nearly tangible, almost _human_ air of displeasure. Feeling foolish for my childish outburst, I turned my gaze meekly to the food laid out for me.

My stomach growled loudly in anticipation as I helped myself to small samples of the dishes that lay easily within arm's reach. As I began to sate my hunger, my thoughts unwittingly turned to my loved ones. However, unlike my previous reminiscing, a gently happy mood supported my spirits – at least, in that moment.

_Oh, how I wish they all were here! Aunt and Uncle Giry would never be able to get enough of this food! Meg would especially love the oranges – she hasn't so much as smelled one since we left Paris—and all the open space here! Even Raoul would be speechless in the face of all this beautiful grandeur. And Gisèle and Michel—why, they've probably never seen so much food in one place in their whole lives!_

I stopped in the action of scooping up another spoonful of thick chowder.

No, they never _had_ seen so much food in their whole lives.

And they most likely never would.

Slammed by an overwhelming sense of guilt, I leaned back in my chair and feebly pushed away the plates and bowl before me. I drew a hand across my eyes, then rested my forehead against it. A weak feeling in my midsection informed me that my body was not fully satisfied…but then, neither was my conscience.

How could I sit here, in this room of rich delicacy and abject beauty, and eat such food as was only heard of by most of my fellow citizens, when some of those people would go hungry tonight? I had not forgotten the first winter my family and I had spent in Rouen, when more often than not we had gone without proper—if any—food at all. Most of the families in our acquaintance did not usually fare any better, even in more prosperous seasons. I knew that the Andrés were not the only family who barely had enough to survive. How, then, could I enjoy any of this, when I knew all too well the pain that they suffered?

Though it was a slight sound, the chair scraping against the smooth marble floor echoed ominously in the cavernous room. The silence became even more disapproving as I walked hurriedly out of the dining chamber, but I gave no outward sign that I ever noticed the change of mood. My guilty conscience thus assuaged, I thought longingly of my assigned chamber, and the bed that awaited me there.

I met M. Khan at the top of the double staircase. In his hands was a silver tray that bore a glass decanter of dark crimson liquid and an elegant glass goblet. The whole display shimmered and twinkled in the waning sunlight that drifted in through the few open curtains.

I tried to rush past him—I did not want any more pity or enigmatic statements tonight—but he called my name, effectively putting a halt to my paltry escape.

"Your supper—was it not to your satisfaction?" he asked, a slight frown etched into his features.

I sighed, exasperated—though at whom, it was difficult to say.

"It would have been more to my satisfaction if I knew that _everyone_ had so much food to eat, without the fear of wasting it or going hungry."

M. Khan looked rather abashed at my outspokenness. Through the mellow twilight and the haze of my encroaching exhaustion, I could see that dark shadows had begun to form under his jade-green eyes.

I sighed again, this time in remorse.

"Forgive me, _monsieur_. I…I am not myself tonight."

He nodded tiredly. "I understand—at least, I _think _I do. Today has been…tiring for you, I'm sure."

"Yes, tiring," I repeated, not quite meeting his pitying gaze. "If you will excuse me, I would like to retire for the night."

"Of course. _Bon soir,_ Mlle. Daaé."

With a slight incline of the head that I was too late to return, M. Khan turned and descended the staircase, disappearing beyond my range of vision.

I continued on my way: through the third door on the left, down the corridor behind it, to the seventh door on the right. When Nadir Khan had shown me about Silaton Place, I had been shocked to find that my living quarters lay not on the first storey—which is where I had been raised to believe was the proper location to shelter maids and servants—but on the second, in an area that was evidently reserved for only the wealthiest of the house's inhabitants. This had spurred another dispute between us, in which I insisted that much humbler quarters be procured, and M. Khan insisted with equal fervor that the Comte had ordered that I be housed there. I had only ceased my resistance when he had informed me that no other rooms had been prepared, and that my only alternative lay in sleeping with the horses.

I had not examined my bedchamber yet. This morning, I had been strangely afraid to see what lay beyond the door. I had been afraid to see what the mysterious Comte had selected to furnish my room: my last sight before I fell asleep each night here. M. Khan had been kind enough to place my satchel inside while I had started on my first chores…but now was the time to confront my silly apprehensions. Perhaps, with the mist of approaching darkness around me and the fog of fatigue clouding my mind, it would not seem so bad at first.

It was very dark inside the room. Even after my eyes had adjusted, I could barely make out any shapes at all. Thankfully, a simple candelabrum stood on a small decorative table that was conveniently placed by the door. After lighting its candles with the tinder placed beside it, I began to light the other candles that soon became visible, though the sight that the light revealed dismayed me more and more.

It was worse than I had expected.

This room was about the same size as the one that I had recently left, if not larger. I stood in an antechamber that was not entirely closed off from the bedchamber on its left. A long blue and white Oriental rug edged with white tassels covered the dark wooden floor. Three large windows across from the door were covered by soft white satin and tulle curtains. Below them were three chairs grouped around a table, upon which sat a lap-desk, complete with parchment, pens, and ink bottles. Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases surrounded a fireplace large enough to roast an ox on a spit; over its mantel hung a large nighttime landscape with strong overtones of blue and white. A silver chandelier strung with glass beads hung from the ceiling, but its holders were empty at present. Throughout both rooms, an innocent light-blue-and-silver wallpaper had been painted over the walls.

As I began my progress towards the bedchamber, I flinched as I glimpsed movement out of the corner of my eye. A large mirror gilded in silver hung on the wall that I had not examined yet. But I did not look long at the mirror. I already knew that the slight, dark, waifish figure that lay within its depths had no place in the exquisite beauty around her.

The main focus of the bedchamber was the bed itself. It was a large four-poster, hung and covered with a beautiful midnight blue fabric that was embroidered with tiny swirling silver patterns. A wooden chest had been placed at the foot of the bed, with my satchel sitting meekly upon its carved surface. Two small armoires stood on either side of the bed, with delicately painted china lamps on top of each.

There was another door built into the wall behind the bed, but I had no more energy for exploring; I hardly had energy for anything. I barely remembered to place the candelabrum on one of the armoires before I sat down on the edge of the bed, utterly overwhelmed.

It was all so beautiful… but it was not what I wanted.

There was not another bed that sheltered a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl of eleven years beside me. There was no carved window seat, no simply-made armoire with my treasures and an odd coterie of nature's gifts atop it. There was no awkwardly constructed parlour below me, or any of its usual inhabitants at this time of night. There was no sound of the wind rushing through the rowan trees, whispering me to sleep as it had each night for three years.

I felt so lonely, as if I had been set adrift on a small rowboat in the middle of the ocean—a peerless, majestic, blue-and-silver ocean. Somehow, my lovely surroundings served only to augment my solitude. They were all just things: inanimate, taking up space, and completely unaware of their own beauty. They fell far short of the comfort that simple human contact could give.

The silence became much too oppressive. Sinking down under its weight and into the indescribably soft bedclothes, I let the despairing sobs finally overcome me.

* * *

"My dear child, why are you crying?"

Shooting up from my sprawled position across the bed, I stared wildly around me, searching for the voice that I had just heard. Heart pounding in my throat, I rose—shaking—and examined each shadowy corner of my chambers.

I was alone.

Had I then imagined that beautifully soft, velvet voice asking after me? Had my agitation so overwhelmed me that I had deluded myself into thinking that there was someone—_anyone_—out there who was truly concerned for me?

I gazed dejectedly at my reflection in the huge mirror. Mussed hair, preternaturally pale skin, red-rimmed eyes, and more disheartening sights met my eyes.

"Have I gone mad?" I murmured to myself.

"No."

I started.

I had not expected a response.

"Who are you?" I asked, in a tone of voice that sounded much louder and braver than I felt.

There was a slight, delicate pause. I took a deep breath, trying to clear my mind.

"A friend," he finally answered. For whoever was speaking to me was undoubtedly male. His voice was of a pitch so low—and so unimaginably rich, deep, and beautiful—that it was impossible for it to belong to a woman. And though this fact alone should have greatly alarmed me, I felt my frantic pulse begin to slow, as did my breathing. It was unreasonable, perhaps even foolish, but I grew less afraid.

"Trust me…" he pleaded.

And, strangely enough…I did.

"Why can I not see you?"

He paused again at my question.

"It is not opportune for you to see me just yet. I do not know that either of us is ready."

I froze as a sudden suspicion formed in my mind.

_He will come to you when you are ready…_

_Oh heavens…could it be true?_

"You aren't…are you the…the Angel of Music?"

"The—I beg your pardon?"

I stammered and blushed as I tried to explain.

"When I was a—a young girl, my father used to tell me many stories. My favourite was the one about the Angel of Music. He comes to all great composers and musicians at least once in their life, usually at a time when they are feeling most sad or distressed. No one ever sees him, but he always makes himself heard to those predestined to hear him."

There was yet another pause. It was so long that I began to fear that I had somehow offended him, and that he had left me to the gaping jaws of my solitude.

But then, his reassuring voice echoed around me again as he answered, "I am known by many different names. If it pleases you, lady, you may call me that."

It was a diplomatic response at best. He had not expressly said that he truly was the Angel of Music…but it relieved me to be able to associate a name with the exquisite yet disembodied voice speaking inside my rooms, with no exact focus to denote where its owner was. And…the way he had lingered over the word "lady": caressing it with a gentle, tender touch…I will not deny that several shivers went down my spine at that moment.

"Please tell me," he continued, "why it was that you were crying. Are your rooms not to your satisfaction? Did you not like your supper?"

"No." I shook my head. Though I did not say as much, I still hoped that I would never cry for such silly reasons. I never had before.

"No, it is not that," I continued as I began to stumble tiredly back to my bed. I struggled to assign words to the myriad of feelings and thoughts that were spinning inside my mind and heart, but they came haltingly and I did not think that I did justice to the turmoil within.

"It's just…why am I here? Why did the Comte choose me?"

I sat down again on the rich blue covers, half-reclining against the mound of pillows—some decorative, others not—arranged carefully against the headboard.

"What interest could he possibly take in me? We saw each other once, but it was only for a moment…and he has behaved so strangely: demanding that I act almost as his housekeeper, yet insisting that I dine on the finest food and be quartered in such beautiful rooms. It makes no sense!"

I turned my head, half-burying my face into a silk-upholstered pillow as I gazed through the filmy curtains and into the nighttime sky.

"I just want to be home again," I murmured. "I miss my family, and the cottage. I miss talking with Meg late into the night. I miss my garden, and I miss reading to my family and friends after supper. I miss hearing the birds, and people talking and laughing. I miss everything that I _will_ miss...everything that I will not have again. And…it is strange to think that, though only a road separates me from everyone I love, I feel as if we are worlds apart."

I sighed despondently, and I thought that I heard the Angel sigh as well.

"You love them very much," he stated lowly. It seemed to me that there was another deeper meaning to his words, but I could not begin to comprehend what it was.

"Y-yes, I do. Without them, I…"

My lower lip began to tremble, and my throat constricted painfully for a moment.

"I am lonely."

The Angel sighed heavily again.

"I am sorry, Christine."

Once again, it seemed as if he meant more than his words conveyed, and I was momentarily unsure as to whether he was expressing pity for my situation, or remorse for…for something else.

I shook my head slightly.

"You need not apologize. None of this was your fault."

The silence stepped in. It stretched so long that I was again afraid that the Angel of Music had left me.

"Angel?" I asked tremulously, raising my head as if hoping that I would see him appear before me.

"I am still here."

I exhaled in relief.

"Forgive me; I was afraid that you had gone."

"No. You need never fear of my leaving you. I will only depart when you wish me to."

My eyelids were beginning to slide closed despite myself, easing slowly into the land of sleep through the lullaby of the Angel's voice. I rallied my senses long enough to put into audible form the request that I had longed to make since my father had first told me the Angel's story.

"Angel? Will you sing to me?"

I could almost see him smile when he said simply, "Of course."

He sang a quiet, mellow lullaby in a tongue that I did not understand. Even if he was not the Angel of Music, it was appropriate that I should term him so, for his voice truly was heavenly. As I finally slipped into unconsciousness, I felt the first true feelings of peace settle over me since I had crossed the threshold of Silaton Place.

My sleep that night was deep and dreamless.

* * *

I woke not long after dawn. Sunlight drifted gracefully through the windows and across my face, brushing my features as gently as a moth's wings.

Arising from my sprawled position—I noted with no little dismay that I had somehow twisted myself inside my dress so that it tugged uncomfortably at me in several places—I crossed silently to the windows and opened each one.

Today would be better, I decided. I had already gotten through the first day of my atypical employment here. I had braved the silence and the idiosyncrasies, the hard labor and the luxury; and, with the help of an enigmatic butler and a disembodied voice, I had survived. I knew mainly what to expect now. I could lay aside my apprehensions of the future and my despondency for the past, and focus on my life now. No longer would I be afraid or melancholy.

"Here's to making it count," I whispered into the fresh air.

As I turned away from the window, I thought that I heard the sound of a solitary morning bird's song.

* * *

My remaining week at Silaton Place fell into something of a routine. After arising early in the morning, I would quickly prepare for the day, utilizing the large closet and even larger bathroom that lay beyond the door that I had not explored at first. I was especially grateful for the closet. Though selecting my daily outfits from the dresses provided was at first an awkward process—there was absolutely no way that I would go about my chores in a silk gown studded with jewels—it was certainly more preferable than dressing every day in the only gown I had been foolish enough to bring.

I took my meals in the kitchens, where Nadir Khan would meet me and delegate my tasks for the day. More often than not, I was left to my own devices when it came to my chores, as M. Khan would tidy up some other room or attend to the Comte. But, several times that week, M. Khan joined me in my more momentous tasks: washing and furnishing the ballroom, for example. As we scrubbed and hung paintings together, I asked him subtle—and not so subtle—questions about our mutual employer, and through some persuasion and interpretation on my part, I learned more of the Comte.

The Comte di Ribaldi was more than nobility—he was a disinherited member of a royal family that was unheard of in this part of the world. Whether his family had brought down his disinheritance as a punishment or he had intentionally left what was rightfully his, no one save the Comte and his family knew. Either way, the family had evidently bestowed mercy upon him by insisting that he at least have a title, so that he need not be subjected to less fortune and respect than one of his birth merited. He had traveled nearly all over the world, and had learned many great and terrible things. The Comte was a master of prestidigitation, familiar with every kind of torture, and was also a truly gifted healer. He was an avid reader, knew much of architecture and the humanities, and was extraordinarily talented in each of the higher arts. But his favourite, as I had guessed, was music. He ate, slept, and breathed music. He could play any instrument he set himself to learning. And his voice–!

M. Khan was eager to list the Comte's accomplishments, but was not so eager to delve into the personal traits of the man himself. The swarthy butler only hinted that our employer had once been an extremely kind, merciful, and compassionate man, if a little prone to pride. But, now…

And here he left off the story, shaking his head.

Each night, after eating supper, I would retire to my rooms. When necessary, I would bathe in the bathroom at the end of the window-lined corridor behind the door. It was another large room, lavish in its simplicity. It was decorated in lavender and a warm white that I believed was termed ecru. There, I found enough perfumes, lotions, soaps, bath salts, and more to last me at least a year. Though my body felt as if it were becoming even more thin and wiry with all of its labours, it ached more with each day; but with the help of the bath salts and the hot water that came through pipes in the floors—that was Nadir Khan's explanation of the process—I was never painfully sore. I found myself opting to use the rose-scented lotion to massage my face, arms, and legs before retiring to my bed each night. The scent was so strong and vivid that it seemed as if I was rubbing the actual flower's petals against my skin, instead of a simple concoction.

The Angel of Music came to me each night, and we conversed for as long as I could stay awake. I told him about my days, how I felt that I was beginning to know Silaton Place better for having expended so much effort to make it presentable, and my conversations with Nadir Khan. Strangely enough, the Angel seemed to find my subtle discoveries about the Comte rather amusing.

"Are you always so resourceful?" he had asked me.

"Only when I need to be," I had replied, with more than a mischievous smile on my face.

When I felt that I could no longer stay awake, I would ask him to sing to me, and he did. Each lullaby was different, but they were the same in the sense that all were simple, mellow, and understated; therefore, they were sweeter and more beautiful than any ostentatious aria or ballad.

I found myself living for my nights. Daylight meant loneliness, excruciating work, and silence; the nighttime, however, heralded comfort and contact with a being outside myself, who did not speak with me simply to repeat orders. The Angel was kind and compassionate, and I appreciated his invisible company more than any materialistic comfort the Comte could shower down upon me. Had I been housed in the stables, I still would have been happy, so long as my Angel was with me.

During that week, I never saw the Comte di Ribaldi, nor did he ever again order that I be allowed to dine in more luxury than I was used to, which had been no luxury at all.

* * *

When I left Silaton Place to return to my family for the weekend, I felt a vague feeling of disappointment. I had hoped to see the Comte di Ribaldi at least once, but I had not so much as glimpsed the corner of his cloak or heard the tread of his shoes. But then, I was also grateful that anything my aunt had feared would happen to me had never come to pass, and that I was returning safely to my family.

And…and I was glad to have met my Angel.

Slinging my satchel over my shoulder, I set off down the white gravel path, my thin boots crunching delicately in the morning's stillness. As I approached the gates, I thought I glimpsed a woodland finch constructing a nest in the crook of a cedar tree's branches.

I smiled to myself, then ran most of the way home.

* * *

I nearly tripped over a large bundle on the cottage's doorstep when I reached it. Bending down towards it, I realized that it was actually a hamper full of food. A stiff, formal card inside bore the words, "For the Girys, to serve as aid in these troubled times."

And when I pulled back the covering cloth even further, what I saw nearly took my breath away.

Hot cross buns, five different pastries, a glass bottle of milk, a block of cheese, two bags of finely ground coffee, a wrapped block of chocolate, and oatcakes sweetened with honey lay innocently inside. And yet, it was neither the amount nor the diversity of the food that shocked me. It was the fact that I recognized it all. I knew every piece of food from helping M. Khan clean out and organize the cupboards in the extensive kitchens. I knew the German-made strudel that had quickly become my favorite at Silaton Place. I knew the smell of the coffee, for it was exactly the same as what had helped to completely awaken me each morning at the manor.

As for the rest of the food…

Well, it was still hot.

* * *


	14. Chapter Twelve: Night Escapades

_A/N:...frankly, I'm tired of giving excuses for these long periods between updates, and you're probably tired of hearing them, yes? So I will simply say that I am terribly sorry that you've had to wait this long (and only 5 pages to show for it!), and if you've stuck this long with me, then you are my heroines/heroes. I've already started writing the next chapter (a very long and VERY imprtant one); while this is no longer a guarantee that said chapter will be up quickly, at least you know for certain it will be posted at all. :) This little chapter below is another filler, but it is rather important I think. You'll see why in a minute._

_Disclaimer: If I had a dollar for every character that wasn't mine..._

* * *

**_Chapter Twelve:_**

_**Night Escapades**_

_**-Ludovic Buquet-**_

* * *

"The idea of strictly minding our own business is moldy rubbish. Who could be so selfish?"

-Myrtie Barker

* * *

_Creak! Grrooooaaan – CRASH!_

"Thomas, you fool! Are you _trying_ to get us caught?"

"Sorry!"

I rolled my eyes at my friend's clumsiness. You'd think that after all the times we'd snuck into Silaton Place, he could at least remember how to shut the gate properly!

We hid behind the trunks of the old trees, hugging ourselves against the damp chill of night. Since I was closest, I looked up at the windows, scared that we might have woken the Comte.

Thankfully, no light appeared.

"Let's just go back," Thomas whined. "Why don't we go back home?"

"Because if we do, then we have to do Jean's chores for a month," Luc whispered back. "Hmm…Jean's chores…a week's worth of candy," I could barely see him holding his hands like an uneven scale, "which would you rather have?"

Thomas trailed off into resentful muttering.

The sound of shuffling yet familiar footsteps reached my ears. I sighed quietly. Call me a bad grandson, but part of me had secretly hoped that Thomas had shut the gate on him.

"Stupid kids," my half-crazy grandfather, Joseph Buquet, mumbled. "Gettin' up at all hours, pullin' pranks – mavericks, all of yeh…"

I signed frantically for him to stop talking. He had lost his hearing many years ago, but that hadn't stopped him from voicing his opinion as often and as loudly as he used to when he could still hear himself doing so. At least, that was how my _maman_ always explained it.

"Remind me why we _had_ to bring your _grandp__è__re_," Thomas said. He sounded very frustrated…or just peeved.

I rolled my eyes again, and then remembered that he couldn't really see me. "I told you, he woke up as I was sneaking out. He insisted on coming with me so he could 'protect' me. He said that if I didn't take him he'd tell my parents, and they would _whip me good_ if they knew what we were doing!"

There was a quiet scoffing noise that I thought came from Thomas, though I would not like to swear it.

"What is your problem? Why do you always get us into trouble? If it hadn't been for you, we wouldn't even be here!"

What Thomas said was sadly true – more often than not, I don't brag as much as exaggerate – but my temper instantly flared. He was my friend, and he was still blaming _me_?

"No one _forced_ you to come along! If you weren't so nosy all the time–"

"I had to be sure that Jean wasn't looking for an excuse to whip you again!"

"Oh, right, you're so–"

"_Hey!_" Luc hissed at us. Thomas and I stopped arguing. "Would you two just be quiet for once? _I_ don't want to get caught, and if you two keep arguing, we'll wake someone up!"

I shot a glare at Thomas – or at least, in Thomas's general direction. After taking my grandfather's hand, I whispered for Thomas and Luc to follow me.

We crept up to the house as quickly as we dared, darting in and out of the shadows like bats. My heart began to pound faster and faster, my mouth dry as sand. I really did not want to get caught, especially by the Comte! There were rumours that he turned into some sort of animal at night, and if he caught you while he roamed his land, he'd eat you without a second thought! I didn't want that to happen to any of us, not even Thomas – but I definitely wasn't scared.

Of course not.

At last, we made it to the steps and onto the terrace. We looked through the different windows, trying to see through the cracks in the drapery inside. It was very dark.

"See anything?"

"Nothing…"

"_Sacre bleu_, does he have enough books?"

I knew I should have paid attention. If I hadn't been so focused on spying with my friends, I might have been able to stop what happened next.

I barely heard my grandfather muttering again as he stepped towards the huge double doors.

"Kids these days…when _I_ was your age, if you wanted to talk to someone, you just–"

He pushed one of the doors open…and disappeared inside.

* * *

"Oh _no_," I gasped. Thomas, Luc, and I sprinted for the doors. I didn't know what I would or _could_ do once I reached them. All I could think of were the scariest stories I had heard about the Comte, and how angry he would be to find an intruder, and my poor grandfather shuffling around in there, and what my parents would do to me if they knew what was happening–!

The door slammed shut just as we were about to burst through. I pulled and twisted the doorknobs so hard that I hurt my shoulders, but both doors were locked!

"Stupid – stupid – _stupid_ old man!" I hissed angrily to myself. I was starting to panic. "_What_ was he thinking?"

"Just move over," Thomas ordered quietly. He pulled his trusty pins out of his pocket and began to pick the lock.

"_Monseigneur_!"

"Heavens preserve us," I whispered. What did my grandfather think he was doing? He was going to get us all into trouble!

"_Monseigneur_! My grandson is outside and would like to meet yeh! Heaven knows why–"

"Hurry!" I mouthed at Thomas, signaling him to move faster.

"Wait!" Luc interrupted.

"Are you out of your–"

"_Listen_!"

We pressed our ears against the door. I could hear my grandfather's slow footsteps…and other, more powerful strides that became louder and louder.

_Oh no._

The footsteps stopped, and the silence that followed seemed to last forever. I barely breathed, afraid that whoever was on the other side would somehow hear me.

"_What in the devil's name are you doing __**in my house?!**_"

The large, powerful voice that thundered out scared us so much that we all backed away, tripped on the stairs, and fell over backwards. I shot up instantly.

"Saints help us…he's got my grandfather!"

I almost began to run back up the steps, but Luc was faster. He grabbed my shoulders and started to pull me towards the gates.

"Ludo, no! We've got to tell someone!"

"No! I can't leave my grandfather!"

"We can't help him!" Thomas added. His voice shook as much as his hands. "We're just kids! We can't do _anything_!"

"Except tell someone. Let's go, Ludo!"

"But–"

"_Come on_!"

I sighed, angry and scared about what was going to happen. Then I turned and ran with my friends to the gates.

"What am I going to tell my parents?"

"I don't know! Just make up something!"

* * *

"He was _sleepwalking_?"

"I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't wake up!"

"He walked all the way to Silaton Place – while he was _asleep_?"

"I tried to stop him, I swear I did!"

"You're lying to me."

"No, I'm not – ow, ow, ow!"

My father leaned down to speak into my ear, which he held tightly between his fingers.

"You expect me to believe that your grandfather, who has never so much as mumbled in his sleep, climbed out your window – and sleepwalked to Silaton Place? And how do Thomas and Luc figure in this?"

I hadn't thought of a good story to explain why my friends had been with me (at least, not in a way that my father would believe _and_ wouldn't get them in trouble), so I used the best answer: silence.

"I see," my father whispered when I refused to say anything. With many protests of pain on my part, he pulled me by my ear out the front door and onto the terrace.

A mob had gathered in front of our house. They were waving torches, tools, and old weapons. My mother was standing at the edge of the terrace in her nightdress and robe, telling everyone what terrible danger my grandfather was in. I didn't know if she meant to, but she was working them into a frenzy.

"–and he's trapped in there, with _him_! Who knows what sort of danger he's in? Please, you _must_ bring him back!"

I knew that my grandfather was in some sort of trouble. I knew that I was _certainly_ in trouble with my parents, and that my friends were most likely in trouble as well. But…seeing everyone that animated, waving their different weapons…the prospect of violence…I don't know how to describe it…

It was _exciting_.

"Never fear, Madame Buquet!"

"We will bring back your father-in-law!"

"We're more than a match for the Comte!"

"Oh, _thank you_!"

The shouting reached such a pitch that at first, no one noticed the figure that opened the window next to the front door.

"Would yeh all _shut up_?! I can't hear mehself think!"

"Grandfather?" I called as I turned around.

_It was _impossible_…_

Everyone "shut up" real quick.

"_P__è__re_?" my own father asked, his voice shaking. I stood staring at them both with my mouth gaping like a fish.

How was it possible? I had definitely seen him walk into Silaton Place – the door had locked behind him – _how _had he gotten back home without being noticed?

And what did he mean by what he had shouted? My grandfather had been deaf ever since I could remember – yet he had definitely told us that we were being too loud for him…

Did he really mean it? Or was he just saying it to be confusing, the way grown-ups sometimes did?

"What's wrong? Don't yeh recognize your own father anymore, boy?" Grandfather laughed, like what he said was clever. His laugh was a dry sound, like autumn leaves rustling against each other. I would never tell anyone, but I had often wished that he would laugh more often.

My father gaped at him. "But you – you can't…_how_?"

Grandfather looked at him, then at the crowd on the lawn. All of their faces had similar expressions of shock and wonder as they waited for my grandfather's response.

If there was anything my grandfather loved as much as a good cut of meat, it was an audience.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, then said, "Oh, come in already."

The crowd surged onto the terrace as people found room in our small drawing room. They were all whispering excitedly, saying that it was a miracle, and wouldn't my family be so happy?

I skipped inside with them. Maybe I wasn't in a heap of trouble after all.

* * *

_I can has reviews and constructive criticism, yes? ;)_


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